The forever waves

We’re back at the lake again, here for just a few days.  So I’m writing this while sitting lakeside, the wind heavy on my back.   (Cindy's photo caught me talking to Meghan on my cell.  Ah, technology!) 

It had been a quiet visit until yesterday.  The lake was calm; wildlife that rarely appeared seemed to pop up more often – the blue heron, a pileated woodpecker, deer.  Plus the usual ducks. 

Part of the quiet was the absence of neighbors, especially those to the east, whose youngsters like to beep boat horns first thing in the morning. The busy tourist season here runs only to mid August.  After that, cabin dwellers are pulled home by the obligations of school and work. 

Sometimes that’s good. Nature’s residents then seem to take over. We marveled at the quiet.  At their quiet – the ducks' soft quack, the seagulls' distant call, the hum of the pair of hummingbirds.

Yesterday, though, a squall moved in from the north.  The rains fell, not in big drops, but in thin, diagonal curtains pushed hard by the wind.  It was a raw rain, accompanied by colder temperatures. 

Last night, I struggled to catch a fire in the fireplace; the winds were so stiff that the smoke puffed back down the chimney into my face.  We soon realized, based on the smokey clouds that soon hid the ceiling, that our fire alarms needed new batteries.

Eventually the fire blazed and the chimney warmed, creating a strong up-draft.  The cottage stayed comfortable … and yes, smoke-free.

It’s on such nights that I sleep best.  Outside, the winds howl; the water becomes a black frenzy of white caps. Inside, the waves soothe as they methodically come ashore, the sound muffled by the partly closed window. You can hear the broader ones march down the shoreline’s length, from west to east, echoing along the way - like quiet thunder rippling across a landscape.

Okay, a confession:  I need what’s known as “white noise” to sleep. Usually it’s a fan blowing in the summer; in winter, a humidifier.  When I have neither, and its loudly quiet, I turn to an “ap” on my iPhone that offers a variety of soft sounds – crickets, surf, trains, rain, etc.  Crickets are best.

But last night’s lake sounds were pure bliss. 

I’m reminded of trips to the ocean shore, sure.  But more than that, the surf is the cottage’s most tell-tale sound of place and purpose.  After all, the cottage exists precisely where it is – and holds so many memories - because the lake is a mere 50 feet beyond its door. 

Absent the lake, it would be a four-room, squat structure of little significance. Certainly Dad and Mom wouldn’t have bought it back in 1974.

It's a sign of summer's end that the winds this time blew from the north, bringing cold.  You can see the clues in a variety of ways:  Some trees already are ever-so-slightly turning color; the locals seem wistful about the coming fall.

As for us, we’re here because it’s Cindy’s 50^th birthday.  What better place to celebrate. Monday, we will hike the dunes all the way to Lake Michigan – a tortuous journey up slippery sand and down.  It’s our poke in the eye to the AARP and all the others who hasten the notion of “getting older.” 

   

You see, the cottage becomes a measure of time for us.  We were newlyweds here. We’ve seen our children grow here.  Today, we celebrate an important birthday.

Tomorrow?  Well, we know the cottage will be purchased, then eventually knocked down, so nature can regain its grip on this little plot of lakeshore. 

But the lake, and the pound of its waves, will endure.  Far beyond our own time.

There’s something very comforting in that.