could get past the lingering taste of dirt.)
After that we spent an afternoon churning butter at a living history museum a few towns over.
We rode inner tubes down the South Branch Galien River.
We cooked massive breakfasts and elaborate dinners, each involving new and difficult recipes that my parents had squirreled away over the course of the year.
And, oh, the antiquing. I knew we’d gone overboard with that when I found myself having a serious internal debate about which kind of quilt pattern I liked best, Double Wedding Ring or Log Cabin.
But toward the end of June it all fell apart. Abbie slipped out one morning for a “quick dunk” in the lake and never came back, so I was sent to look for her.
When I got there, she was still in the water. And even though she was just bobbing around in a bikini instead of seriously trainingin her Speedo, I decided I’d better not disturb her. I had no choice but to flop onto the sand and start texting with Emma. I’d just happened to stash my phone in my bag on my way out the door, along with a giant tube of sunscreen, Granly’s old copy of Sense and Sensibility , and my bathing suit and cover-up.
You know, just in case.
One by one the rest of my family arrived. First came my dad with a soft cooler full of soft drinks. Then Hannah, who had a beach blanket and a mesh bag of clementines. And finally my mom, wearing her purse and a confused expression.
“But we’re going to that artists’ colony to watch them make fused glass,” she complained. She was decked out in touristy clothes: capri pants, walking sandals, floppy-brimmed hat—the works.
“That sounds fascinating,” Hannah said, shielding her eyes with her hand and squinting up at Mom. “But you know what would be an even more interesting way to spend the day?”
“What?” Mom asked.
“Lying on this beach doing absolutely nothing,” Hannah said.
Without looking up from my phone—where Emma had just finished a long, dramatic story about getting caught making out with Ethan in the parking lot of the LA Ballet—I raised my fist in silent solidarity.
“There’s not another glass demonstration until August,” my mom protested feebly. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that she kicked off her sandals as she said it.
“Maybe Hannah’s right, hon,” my dad said. “It’s been a long few weeks. It’s been a long year . Maybe it’s time for a breather. We can go see them blow glass next time.”
“ Fuse glass . . . ,” my mom said. But her teacherly voice trailed off as she gazed out at the blue-green, sun-dappled lake.
She sat down gingerly on the blanket.
“Cold Fresca?” Hannah asked, digging into the cooler for my mom’s favorite drink.
Mom shrugged as she took the can and popped it open. She took a sip. It turned into a deep swig. Then she dug her toes into the sand, flopped back onto the blanket, and said to the sky, “Oh. My. Gawd.”
“See?” Hannah said to her. “Nice, huh?”
I held up my hand so Hannah could high-five me, then returned to my cell phone.
That’s when Abbie emerged from the lake, shaking the water out of her hair like a wet puppy.
“Uh-oh,” she said, eyeing Mom. “Well, I guess it was too good to last. So what’s on the agenda today? Making our own soap? Tracing Johnny Appleseed’s steps through Michigan?”
“Here,” Mom said as she reached into the cooler. “Have a Coke. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Oh. My. Gawd,” Abbie said, gaping at our mother.
“She’s crossed over to the dark side,” Hannah said happily. Then she flopped onto her back next to my mom and closed her eyes for a nap.
A t some point we got hungry. So we threw on our flip-flops and shuffled up to town.
Perhaps because it was the first café we hit on Main Street, we wandered into Dis and Dat. A little hole in the wall with mustard-yellowwalls, Dis and Dat sold two things and two things only: hot dogs and french fries. Both the food and the thick-necked guys
After that we spent an afternoon churning butter at a living history museum a few towns over.
We rode inner tubes down the South Branch Galien River.
We cooked massive breakfasts and elaborate dinners, each involving new and difficult recipes that my parents had squirreled away over the course of the year.
And, oh, the antiquing. I knew we’d gone overboard with that when I found myself having a serious internal debate about which kind of quilt pattern I liked best, Double Wedding Ring or Log Cabin.
But toward the end of June it all fell apart. Abbie slipped out one morning for a “quick dunk” in the lake and never came back, so I was sent to look for her.
When I got there, she was still in the water. And even though she was just bobbing around in a bikini instead of seriously trainingin her Speedo, I decided I’d better not disturb her. I had no choice but to flop onto the sand and start texting with Emma. I’d just happened to stash my phone in my bag on my way out the door, along with a giant tube of sunscreen, Granly’s old copy of Sense and Sensibility , and my bathing suit and cover-up.
You know, just in case.
One by one the rest of my family arrived. First came my dad with a soft cooler full of soft drinks. Then Hannah, who had a beach blanket and a mesh bag of clementines. And finally my mom, wearing her purse and a confused expression.
“But we’re going to that artists’ colony to watch them make fused glass,” she complained. She was decked out in touristy clothes: capri pants, walking sandals, floppy-brimmed hat—the works.
“That sounds fascinating,” Hannah said, shielding her eyes with her hand and squinting up at Mom. “But you know what would be an even more interesting way to spend the day?”
“What?” Mom asked.
“Lying on this beach doing absolutely nothing,” Hannah said.
Without looking up from my phone—where Emma had just finished a long, dramatic story about getting caught making out with Ethan in the parking lot of the LA Ballet—I raised my fist in silent solidarity.
“There’s not another glass demonstration until August,” my mom protested feebly. I couldn’t help but notice, though, that she kicked off her sandals as she said it.
“Maybe Hannah’s right, hon,” my dad said. “It’s been a long few weeks. It’s been a long year . Maybe it’s time for a breather. We can go see them blow glass next time.”
“ Fuse glass . . . ,” my mom said. But her teacherly voice trailed off as she gazed out at the blue-green, sun-dappled lake.
She sat down gingerly on the blanket.
“Cold Fresca?” Hannah asked, digging into the cooler for my mom’s favorite drink.
Mom shrugged as she took the can and popped it open. She took a sip. It turned into a deep swig. Then she dug her toes into the sand, flopped back onto the blanket, and said to the sky, “Oh. My. Gawd.”
“See?” Hannah said to her. “Nice, huh?”
I held up my hand so Hannah could high-five me, then returned to my cell phone.
That’s when Abbie emerged from the lake, shaking the water out of her hair like a wet puppy.
“Uh-oh,” she said, eyeing Mom. “Well, I guess it was too good to last. So what’s on the agenda today? Making our own soap? Tracing Johnny Appleseed’s steps through Michigan?”
“Here,” Mom said as she reached into the cooler. “Have a Coke. We’re not going anywhere.”
“Oh. My. Gawd,” Abbie said, gaping at our mother.
“She’s crossed over to the dark side,” Hannah said happily. Then she flopped onto her back next to my mom and closed her eyes for a nap.
A t some point we got hungry. So we threw on our flip-flops and shuffled up to town.
Perhaps because it was the first café we hit on Main Street, we wandered into Dis and Dat. A little hole in the wall with mustard-yellowwalls, Dis and Dat sold two things and two things only: hot dogs and french fries. Both the food and the thick-necked guys
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