I didn’t want to go home.
My parents bought a gussied-up fishing camp in 1984 and we’ve been making the trek to its location on an island in the middle of Sebago Lake every possible moment since. It’s not easy…the place is only available by ferry and for only six months a year. My parents made it more livable by putting on an addition about 30 years ago, creating an “indoor” bathroom, an actual kitchen and a bedroom that was able to retain heat more adequately than the two-by-four and plywood construction of the other bedrooms. Other than that, there has been little change in almost 40 years.
After my dad retired, they came up for the “season”—April through October (hence the addition and need for warmth). My sister, brother and I came up as often as possible with our families. Our own children grew up here—Annie and Justine connected (partied) with the other island teens, Christopher worked at the little store and John explored the natural world with his mom. As our family grew, so did the number of those who love this rangy, waterfront parcel of land. There has been little improvement in structure or landscape, because with the beauty and power of the lake and mountains in view, we barely noticed it anyway.
I had already been there over a week, squeezing in some time to come up and clean before a few folks rented it. We’re not full-on VRBO renters, but there are a few returnees who come each year and I like it to be presentable. When I say squeezed in, I mean not between work or social commitments, but in between the responsibilities I have to others. They are not small ones: Two of my kids have life-shuddering events happening right now. Angelo and I are going back and forth between the “keep-the-house/sell-the-house” decision and there’s still the job thing I’m casting about for. Lots of things to keep me tethered to home. But I went anyway.
The day I arrived, I felt that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. The sun was shining, the lake was calm and the distant White Mountains were clear on the horizon. Opening up was typical--turn on the water, brush away the pine needles, check out the level of the lake, see if the enormous log that had lodged itself on our tiny deck had moved along. (It had!) I arrived with a solid conviction that I was going to be able to handle all the challenges coming my way and I was buoyed by the quiet consistency of our little cottage, savoring the feeling of safety it imparted.
This is not a stressful place, but there is some stress associated with it. There’s so much to do—major work needs to happen to retain the cottage’s ability to be a retreat for our family. I can clean and paint (I guess . . .) but most of the work has to be done by people I hire. Even so, as the days passed, I hauled mattresses from bedrooms, raked up leaves, reorganized the shed that had been stuffed with last year’s fishing equipment, floats and whatever else couldn’t find a home in the house. I even vacuumed behind furniture, where all the spiders went to live when they heard me arrive. I put up contact paper—our version of wallpaper—in the middle bedroom. I worked. Tony came up for a few days and also did a Herculean job of building a kayak frame and helped me not fall off ladders and we enjoyed well-deserved sunsets by the firepit when the day’s work was done.
My original plan was to leave when Tony did, on Sunday afternoon. But I uncharacteristically changed my plans and extended my stay for a few more days—even missing a meeting to do so. It felt, not like I shouldn’t leave, but that I couldn’t leave. Throughout my stay, I had the sensation of belonging to the island like I had never experienced before. When I thought of leaving, it felt like I was leaving a toddler at home alone while I went to the store. Irresponsible. Who would take care of the cottage if I wasn’t there?
I’m pretty sure what I was doing was allowing myself some denial. My emotions have been on high alert for years and I keep telling myself that “I’m okay.” And I’m not—not always, anyway. Convincing myself that the most important thing to do was to just turn my back on everything that is going on at home and just live at the cottage forever was my brain’s way of ratcheting down the vigilance level a little. Once I realized that—that I had allowed myself to turn my attention elsewhere (although with just as much responsibility just in case I balked at it) I also realized that I was okay. For now. And I was grateful to have been in such a place where that could happen—a family home that contains all the love and safety we’ve infused into it over the years. If a little bit of denial meant I could recharge and maybe heal a little before resuming my regular programming, then why not?
It was time to go home.
What a nice arc your “story“ has. I love hearing about your Lakehouse. Sadly, mine is in the distant past now. ❤️
A recharging station. Glad you have one. ♥️