A Week at the Lake

A long list of list of both small and large goals remains mostly incomplete.  I didn’t finish Moby Dick…I didn’t catch many fish, either, forget about the whale.  I have taken only one walk and didn’t do any cow spotting.  Last month’s magazines and newspapers remain unread, too.  And I didn’t do anything to advance my oft-promised writing career.

I did manage to stay mostly unconnected from news and politics even in an almost impossibly interconnected world.  However, getting to the lake no longer means getting away, alas.

I also stayed away from work most of the week.  That is a mixed blessing, however; when not working we’re not making money.  Margins are tight and there isn’t a lot of fat to sustain a week-long break from the office and clients.  Here at the lake is when I think my father, a plumber in the 1970s, had things a bit better than I do when it comes to peace of mind.

Speaking of peace of mind, I think I am missing a few, as in “piece” of mind.  Now of course six straight nights cocktailing on the SS Fracas might have had something to do with this, but I pulled out my notebook last night and I thought I would sort out some ideas.  Not a chance.  I could not write.  Other than a grid pattern on the page — I like grids, by the way, but only on paper — the blank page conquered me.  As soon as I moved my pen toward the paper, whatever I had thought to write flowed not to the pen, but far, far away, maybe to a place where devils and pixies dwell.  (I think it a good idea to lay off the Brunello and gin today.)

Summer Vacation: The end is nigh.

But what do you do at the lake?  I still have these idyllic pictures of a cabin in the woods, a few good books, and soft music playing beneath the sound of crickets and distance loons calling from outdoors.  I also remember playing on the beach with cousins on a windy night, maybe around a bonfire, as lightning flashes from an approaching but far-off storm.  Sunburn, insect spray, and foreign brands of pop.  Those are good things.  But my memories come from an incandescent world, not the milky overlit one I cannot seem to escape now.

Last day today and perhaps I can get caught up on my holiday to-do list.  It looks like a murky day anyway, the kind of day that has a place at the lake, and the perfect sort of day for getting caught up.  Even at the end of the trip, one can always find time.

Where’s the gin?

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