Before leaving for our family getaway to Clevelands House in Muskoka I made exactly one emergency stop: the book store. I bought four books: The Book of Mormon Girl, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, A Discovery of Witches and my August book club book, The Art of Fielding. I mean, I was going away for four days, after all. Ambitious? Likely. But, you know, I love a challenge.
I read exactly 63 pages.
Since we don’t really vacation with our children (..and with some of the lovely women that I work with and their families), I had absolutely no sense of what I would or would not be doing. None. As a kid, I vaguely remember staying at the Alpine Resort in Door County. When I say vaguely, the only real things I remember are from two photos that occasionally surface at my mom’s house, in her big giant box of childhood memories. One is of me and my sister in some sort of rustic lodge for some reason, every time I see the image, I remember hearing Debarge’s version of Rhythm of the Night playing really loudly. The second is of my Zaydie, standing in front of a white cottage, wearing his signature trucker hat before Ashton Kutcher tried to make them cool, wearing socks and sandals like a boss, and pointing to the cottage’s name, which, of course, escapes me, but I’m fairly sure its name is of some Midwestern State, Michigan, maybe. Or Minnesota, perhaps. Something with an M.
I imagine that one day my kids will come across a photo of their family in front of Cottage #386 and will remember a lot more than Debarge and socks and sandals.
I hope they remember the walk from our cottage to the pool, we made it rather frequently.
I hope they remember the chipmunks in the dining room.
I hope they remember the campfire and the s’mores.
I hope they remember catching the fish.
I hope they remember the kids camp.
I hope they remember trying their very first butter tarts.
I hope they remember the red, yellow, and green chairs down by the water.
I hope they remember the game room claw.
I hope they remember the mini-golf.
I hope they remember the new friends, the old friends.
I hope they remember the late nights, the early mornings.
I know they’ll remember the hugs, the laughs, the smiles, the quiet, the noise, the inside jokes, the brand-new memories, the awesome.
I hope they remember, because I’m too busy finishing up The Art of Fielding for my book club meeting this week.
And, you know, looking into rates for next summer…