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| Category: | Biographical Non-Fiction |
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Posted: | September 21, 2020 Views: 31 |
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weekend at the Lake house
"No more to the Lake"
by Mary Vigasin
To me, roughing it means a hotel room without cable. Admittedly, while I live on a beer budget, I live with the infinite hope that I will win the lottery, (even though my playing is minimal) or that Publisher's Clearing House will come a knocking at my door. (I have not registered lately)
So, when my sister and her new husband Gordon invited me and my husband Harvey to their cabin on the lake, I jumped at the chance, particularly when she told me we would take a boat to an island.
The location was in the far reaches of Maine, my teeth were rattling, my body bouncing up and down as we drove on an unpaved deeply rutted road behind logging trucks. I kept looking out for the marina hoping that the marina would be soon within reach.
I kept picturing the boat; probably a 34-footer, and I beamed with delight at the thought of spending the weekend riding around the lake.
We parked the car and walked through some tall weeds, I thought it unusual that a marina would be in such a desolate area, but I was anxious to get on the boat.
The weeds cleared to an exceedingly small dock. It took me a moment to breathe at the vision of the boat. What I had expected evaporated at the sight of an exceedingly small outboard motorboat. The lightness of the boat made it feel unstable when getting in and out of it.
At least I had the cabin on the island to look forward to.
Our cabin was the only building on a desolated and an exceedingly small island. The nearest neighbor was at least a half a mile away on the other side of the lake. Across the other side of the lake about a mile away, there was a long-deserted boat club.
Well, I do not know if I would call it a 'cabin.' Calling it a shack would be more fitting. It was small with one bedroom and mattress in a loft above the bedroom. The cabin, the boat, the island and the stifling humidity all shot down my weekend of a dream adventure.
I do not know if it was foggy haze that obstructed most of the lake view or maybe it was the haze I was creating. I kept my trigger finger on the button of bug spray to keep away the hordes of mosquitoes from attacking as well as the large hornets' nest that hung on the side of the cabin.
My brother-in-law showed us where the outhouse was. I swore not to eat or drink for the rest of the weekend.
There was no TV, and the only radio was a hand crank job that would give us sound for an hour before you had to hand crank again. So, I pulled out the book I brought to read. Suddenly, the lights went out. My sister, carrying a flashlight, led us towards our bedroom and said goodnight.
My husband asked: "It was only nine o'clock why are we in bed? " I answered: "Because Gordon shut the generator off." Gordon would only run the generator for three hours each day and then shut it off.
With no streetlights, no moonlight or neighboring buildings it was pitch black, you could not see your hand in front of your face. "What time is it now." I asked my husband, Harvey. He would turn on the flashlight to look at his watch. "It is only 9:30." I would turn on the flashlight several more times to look at his watch as I watched the hours tick by. With no breeze or fan to cool us, the humidity in the room was stifling. I love my fluffy bedroom pillows and here I had my head resting on a hard-flat pillow, I swear was made of wood. I do not think I slept more than an hour that night.
When I finally got to sleep, it was the birds that woke me up in the morning. Not the sweet music of birds but screeching loud sounds, I expected to look out and see a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Where were the melodious bird sounds that poets write about? Harvey said it looked like bluejays and crows mostly.
Harvey and Gordon took off on the boat for a ride around the lake. I refused to go in the wobbly boat again till it was time to go home. So, I just sat outside, fanning myself with a newspaper and holding onto my bug spray. I just had a day and a half in this steamy wilderness, before I could get back to civilization with my A/C, TV and fluffy pillows.
On their return, Harvey pointed out an eagle on a dead tree limb in the distance. "No, it is not an eagle, it is a vulture just hoping that I would stay here just one more day. By then, I should be just ripe enough for him."
Author Notes
Ok, the trip to the lake house is true as is the boat, the small island, the generator shutting off, sleeping in the dark, the humidity, the outhouse, the hornets nest, the eagle all true. Whatever is left is from memory. Or, maybe from the nightmares I had about the trip.
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© Copyright 2016.
Mary Vigasin
All rights reserved.
Mary Vigasin
has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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