Um…writing every day? About that. Life happens. Excuses could be made, but excuses are boring. The last few days have been full of lunch with my grandma and my mom (love them. seriously.), life kicking my butt some more (confusion, frustration, a few more tears); a Sunday unexpectedly full of good food and friends; last minute request to help with a project on Monday (running around between ORs for a few hours, and successfully not getting lost in the tunnels). But today. Oh today.
Today was lovely. I took the day off and went to our family cabin in Wisconsin. Me and my mom and three of my siblings, plus my aunt and her two children. Fairly unplanned, come when you can, hang out for the day, just do it.
My mom and I left the cities at 8am, late enough to skirt around any rush hour traffic. It’s a drive that, although it’s fairly long, I’ve made so many times over the course of my childhood that it doesn’t really feel long. It’s all too familiar: 8 lane interstates giving way to two-way country roads. Towns that seem eternally the same. The landmarks, from the A&W at the first turn to the eccentric farmers with elaborate fountains in their backyards, to the cemetery signs (if you actually reach the cemetery itself, you passed your turn). Miles and miles of corn and cows under big billowy clouds in a vast blue sky.
And then, the last turn, and there it is, the little brown cabin in the trees, built by hand by my grandpa, my dad, and other relatives. Simple, compared to the “cabins” (aka lake mansions) of some, but enough, and full of a million memories of endless summer days sitting on, in, or near the water, on the roof, in a hammock, or by a fire. It feels like home in a different way than home feels like home.
We spend the day fishing, moving a few plants to fill in weaker areas of the lakeshore, walking in the woods, eating, and talking. We take up the bocce balls after lunch. Hilarity ensues, between the bumpy, sloping lawn that constantly propels our balls into the lake, and my baby sister’s wildly dramatic throwing technique. A constant breeze, warm sun, and a feeling of all the time in the world–deceptive in a way, because we all have things calling us back to the city that night–and in some ways, it’s like being 15 years younger, playing in the yard like we did when we were kids. Carefree.
Before long, it’s time to go–a long drive, past the corn, the cows, and the small town cemeteries, back onto the busy interstate and into an impending rainstorm. But I have sun on my skin and wind in my hair and for now, it is enough.