Summer Piece

We reached the cottage just as the sun was slipping behind the pines on the opposite side of the lake, leaving them outlined in dark relief against a mass of gold and pink and purple clouds. The lake was still except for the widening ripples made by a fishing crane that flapped its wings slowly as it rose from the water, a silver-finned fish caught tightly in its beak. A solitary cow-bell tinkled in the distance.
The big living room was filled with a dusky light, coming through the partly shuttered windows, that softened the shabbiness of the old furniture. We lit the long-necked kerosene lamps, watching the carbon spread like blotted ink on the glass shades because the wick was turned up too high. John began to build a fire in the smoke-blackened fireplace, splitting the dry kindling over his knee with a sharp crack. The flames hesitated at first – then they burned hotly as a branch of pine caught fire with a sputtering crackle. The shadows came alive on the beams above our heads.
We began to carry in things from the car – the white cake box, heavy blanket rolls tied securely with rope, a tinny black frying pan, our brown wicker suitcases saved only for vacations at the cottage, thick sweaters, cameras, swimming suits deflated after their flying trip tied to the car door handles. We piled everything on the chairs nearest the door, ready to be sorted out in the morning.
Mother put the cake box on the table in the middle of the room and John, Terry, and I crowded around to see what had been salvaged from our noon lunch. We stood in front of the hot fire planning for the next few days, Terry and I dividing the last squashed deviled egg, John taking quick hungry bites out of a hard apple, Mother nibbling daintily on a piece of angel-food cake. When we had finished we threw the used wax paper and paper bags into the fire.
John and Terry went outside to look at the Shamrock, our forty-year-old green rowboat. Mother and I settled ourselves in front of the fire, watching the twisting, turning flames.
We were to be here seven days. Seven wonderful days of swims before breakfast in the icy water with the sun just beginning to appear above the trees; lunches of Mr. Schlafke’s sugared doughnuts and peanut buttered crackers. Seven days to walk barefoot on the smooth sandy road, picking the wild dusty red raspberries and tasting their juicy sweetness; to go out alone in the Shamrock (Mother said I was old enough now) and row to the secluded inlet of the lake and sit listening to the birds or watching a mother mallard with her young brood, swimming and splashing in the water; to go into town and sit on the steps of Mr. Squire’s general store and listen to the dark, black-haired Indians talk softly in their mysterious language, their bright red and blue blankets wrapped around their shoulders. There would be a rainy day, too, to sit in front of the fire and read the Oz books that we got from the little log-cabin library in town from Miss Rogers, the gentle white-haired librarian.
My thoughts were interrupted by Mother as she eased herself out of her chair and began to unwind the blanket roll. I helped her carry the blankets out to the screened porch overlooking the lake, and together we made up the beds. After I was undressed and in my pink flannel pajamas (the nights were cold up here), Mother tucked me in – a hard little mound under the blankets. I could hear the frogs talking to each other, their bass “glumps” clear in the still night. The stars looked warm and friendly where they studded the sky. A sleepy whippoorwill said a last good-night – a delicious drowsiness crept over me. Seven whole days – seven wonderful days –