As summer winds down, with a cool breeze blowing from the north and the highest leaves turning red, we begin the process of closing up Camp, as Mainer’s call it. It’s not just a cottage on a lake where we gather with friends and family all summer long, it’s a whole vibe, sort of like Wisconsin’s Up North.
Anyhow, after a beautiful July and August, full of all kinds of Camp moments – loving an old dog through his last stretch, hosting visitors from near and far, enjoying neighbors known forever, teaching kids to waterski, eating so many impossible burgers I lost count, and searching out the very best fruit pie – I go to town to do some errands – a stop at the post office to pick up forwarded mail, at Good Will to drop off another extra layer, and maybe even a stop at Gifford’s for one last frappe (made with chocolate ice cream, of course).
As I head back to camp afterward and near the cathedral of pines where we used to hold our breath and make childhood wishes, I recall how I hated to leave the lake to go to town with Mom way back when. Once a week, we made the trek – a stop at the laundromat to clean towels and sheets, at the grocery store to stock back up, and maybe even at Rummel’s for another frappe (made with chocolate ice cream, thanks to Mom, of course).
I remember, too, the excitement I felt as we turned back up the camp road. I just had to help unload the car and put things away, and we’d head down the hill to jump into the lake, the dog splashing along with us happily.
The funny thing is, as I reminisce about those dreaded in town trips, it hits me that these days – a half a century later – I actually enjoy these outings. Although I still hate to leave the lake, these sweaty treks remind me of one-on-one time with Mom, the one who taught me the caregiving balance of getting things done AND having some fun.
This time, as I turn up Fire Road 014, Google-mapped as Cathedral Pines Drive – dusty, green, and bright – I notice, wafting down in front of the car, a yellow leaf like the ones that kept finding me in the month after Mom died, six years ago.
And there you have it: here she is, right here beside me, whether it’s getting the chores done or playing in the lake. I’ve shared before the sacredness of closing up camp in the wake of Mom’s death (https://thejoyofcaring.com/2020/09/10/labor-of-love-aka-caregiver-burden/). It’s just wild how time passes and the way the heart adapts to losses we think it never will – longing and gratitude, sadness and joy – two sides of the same yellow leaf.
So, I pull into our yard, a smile on my face, so much love in my heart, for the way Mom taught me to live and breathe Camp and for the sweet reminder that she’s still right here showing me how it’s done.
Which brings me to what’s up next: Wisconsin Wedding Bells!
As always, just lovely.
Hi Terry,
I very heart felt story. I felt like I was along with you driving to and from town…
Love,
Meg
Terry, your articles always paint a picture (cathedral of pines, dog splashing along) and often spark memories from the recesses of my mind. “Up Nort” for my family was the yearly trek to a remote cabin on a lake. The trips to town included filling the water jugs, as the cabin had no water or bathroom (not foreign to us as my Grandparents farm house still had an outhouse and hand pump in their sink). Inevitably, there would be a fierce storm, where the tar between the logs would start to push into the house, and we all thought this must be the end. One of the few weeks during the year when you saw the parents actually relax and play games with us kids, as life at home always seemed to have something needing be done.