We had a glorious time anyway--full of cousins and grandparents and aunts and uncles and innertubes and games and watermelon and fish on the line. Everything the lake has always been, is supposed to be.
(These pictures are from our June trip, but they give you the idea.)
It wasn't all fun, though. There was childhood terror in the midst of a crashing thunderstorm. And tears all around the dock as we shared our memories of Aunt Martha, sent our songs soaring across the lake, and took turns letting handfuls of her ashes sift through our fingers into the deep, green water.
Though Mom came to the lake, she couldn't make it to the evening ceremony on the dock. Once she's had her supper, her lids begin the inevitable downward drift, and there's just no stopping the bedtime train.
Yesterday morning it was time to say goodbye. We skipped the age-old rituals of pre-departure picture-taking (my camera was missing, after all), but swept it all clean before waving our way down the winding gravel. Away.
Our family's car was full of children and dog, so Mom rode with my sister Nancy. When we got home, I called to make sure Mom had gotten home safely, but she was already out in the living room, getting reacquainted with her rest home neighbors. When she called back, she reported to my voice mail that they had gotten back about 3:30 and had a lovely time at the lake--swimming, boating, playing games. She couldn't wait to tell me all about it.
Couldn't wait to tell me all about it. She had already forgotten I was there. I was there.
I've decided not to get too bent out of shape about the camera. I'm guessing it'll turn up. Or, worst case scenario, I'll save my pennies and buy another. Cameras can be replaced.
Mamas, not so much.
