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The End of No Summer

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Barbara set the table with napkins from a package her mother had purchased. I believe her mother has been gone for ten years. We gathered around the table as she served up spaghetti and sauce, meatballs and string beans. The table was loaded with the remains of the cupboard: a cheerful bowl of orange Jello with canned peaches imprisoned in the mold, a bowl of Cole Slaw, gherkins, hot baking powder biscuits. As the sun disappeared, we helped ourselves to this patchwork of a meal and then went for seconds, did our best to make it gone but it was all more than we could eat. There was half a blueberry pie for dessert. And the last of two tubs of ice cream -- chocolate fudge and Spumoni. We ate these in separate dishes. We talked about the problems the lake is facing, land that has always been wild might soon be tamed, a sad reality we have all dreaded and tried to prevent for many years. Who knows what it will be like next year, and in the years to come. We are all used to change. It comes every minute, everywhere we look. Except on this lake, where so much remains the same. This, above all else, might be what we all treasure about it. Like the rising and the setting of the sun, I count on Barbara and Ross's return next summer. One of these days, that package of napkins her mother bought might be gone.

By then it was dark and we could hear the quiet burbling of an outboard putter past the cottage, its red running light the only thing visible on the dark expanse of water. And the loons cried, a mournful sound. We pulled sweatshirts on as the cold descended. Barbara and Ross sketched out their trip for us, a visit with friends in Indiana would break up their long journey. The thought of driving across the country felt exciting. They do it every year, once to get here and again to get home. I felt envious. I felt the sadness that accompanies all endings. And then it was time to say goodbye until next year. We hugged and Barbara and Ross stood in the dark driveway, waving me off. In the next few weeks, if we happen to have some hot weather, I will go there to swim and pick what blueberries might remain on their bushes. The dock will be gone and the boats stashed for the winter. The lake is beautiful in the fall and I often take my kayak out there as the colors change around the edge. But it's never quite the same once everyone leaves. Soon enough, the snow will come and block off access to the cottage and the ice will trap the lake in its bereft silence. And the long wait will begin again.