A tribe of four is sitting in the corner of the lawn on the hill where years ago stairs descended to the lake and Grampa Macmillan’s shaving table stood nailed to a tree. They are talking about plans and futures as the breeze blows up the hill.
There are sailing lessons going on, one kid (not so much a kid, anymore) teaching the others as a big speedboat pulls a inner tube, kicking up a great wake around the little yellow Sunflower.
A brother (a cousin, a nephew, a son, a father, a husband) is in a blue boat rowing his dog around the lake. Once, twice, three times, never stopping once to rest.
Two boys are swimming in the water. “Are we going to ski today?” one asks. Undoubtedly that question is on the minds of all the kids, young and old, including perhaps the 70-year-old kid who made her re-debut a few weeks ago.
The birthday balloons are popping as the day grows warmer. Last night we celebrated under the roof of the patio and inside the sweltering cottage as rain fell from the skies and Trudy and I wondered aloud if we could take some with us when we return to the 106 degree days that continue to assault central Texas.
The three sisters whose birthdays we celebrated last night sit on the hill watching grandchildren and grand nieces and nephews young and old come and go.
“Can we stop now?” the tribe is asking themselves.
“Can we eat now?” others ask, as they rummage through leftovers in the refrigerator and shovel great handfuls of freshly picked blueberries into their mouths.
The clouds and rain of yesterday are gone. The gentle summer of Michigan has returned.
And it is now time to begin the day in earnest.