![]() One day my dad will tell me how he was once washing in the lake when a boat approached. ![]() We bathe in the lake or in a small shower in the trailer across the lawn where my great-grandmother stays in the summer months. ![]() The cottage has three tiny bedrooms with sliding wooden doors and one bathroom with only a toilet and sink. ![]() June, fireflies in flight, glowing in and out of darkness, my dad whistling and then all of us calling in a singsong voice, “We’re here! We’re here!” There is no greater thrill than this first arrival, with all of summer, a lifetime, just ahead my father as ecstatic as my mother, my sister, and I when we see the little red house. We always arrive at night, crunching down the gravel drive, the suitcases piled up in back and the dogs leaning out the window, like a Norman Rockwell painting. We pack up our two dogs, our two cats, give them their prescribed sedatives, and put our three pet rats in their tiny yellow fabric-covered travel cages in preparation for the long flight. Every summer we fly to our cottage in upstate New York, built by my mother’s grandfather and great-grandfather where, with the exception of the years my sister and I were born, my mother has come every summer of her life. ![]()
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