I was on the couch reading a book called Wish You Were Here, which is not a very good book but I have continued reading it because it is about a family who is selling their cottage and it takes place over the week they are all together, and a lot of it resonates with me from my own experience of being in a cottage family. For one, despite the fact that I am an in-law, I have probably spent as much time in the cottage as the rest of the family did while they were growing up (with the exception of my in-laws who spend every summer in it and my husband, who not only grew up in it but has also experienced it far more than his siblings over the years.) While the majority of them come up for a handful of weekends over the course of a summer, as I lay in the living room last night I realized that the cottage has been my home on more than one occasion.
The first time was when I was pregnant with Hallie and we were raising our house to put a cellar (foundation) underneath. Our house was unliveable and so we lived in the cottage -- which was like a paradise compared to our house -- which was under construction for roughly ten years. Every spring after that, as soon as it was warm enough to turn the water on, we would move to the cottage until Peter's parents arrived for the summer. It was our haven -- our little get-away from a tiny house on the lake with a neighborhood of people we both knew and enjoyed.
The second time we lived at the cottage (as our only home) was when this house was under construction and we were promised that we would only have to vacate it for two months. So the plan was to be at the cottage for May and June. By the end of July, with no end in sight of this house becoming liveable, I moved us back anyway and we lived in one room off the garage for the rest of the summer, slowly eeking our way into other rooms as they became available. The cottage can be a peaceful haven -- but when it is filled to the gills with people, it can become a creaking insane asylum with thin walls.
I'm not kidding.
And we never really moved back to the cottage for extended periods after that because our house suddenly became REALLY nice and the cottage was filled with inconveniences.
Which I found interesting, because last night, as I wallowed in my nostalgia, I realized that I'd come full circle: The cottage now feels like a haven again -- a little get-away spot where the kids can't immerse themselves in TV and video games and computers (or even better, I don't have to keep telling them to turn all those things off) and I could lay on the couch reading as everyone else slept and listen to the voices outside on the public dock, or people walking by and recall that I was one of those people not so long ago -- completely unaware that someone might be sleeping in those dark cottages. Or really not caring, I am sure. And I enjoyed listening to the people as they passed, a Saturday night, a hot summer night ... the sound of a boat speeding away in the distance.
The book I was reading delved into the relationships between the family members, and the roles that each played in relation to the cottage. Who drove the boat, started the BBQ, made the food, did the dishes, did a puzzle, got mad because someone was staying up late talking (and through thin walls everything can be heard) and who ate food that was supposed to be saved for a meal, and rainy days where the TV is on and how that upsets certain generations ... and I just laughed. For I could write a book on the things I've been through with family members over the years in regards to the cottage.
A book I tell you.
But I made up my mind at the beginning of this summer that all the things that bothered me in the past about the cottage are not going to touch me. I have released them all to the universe -- (so be careful, for swirling around out there is some pretty crazy stuff!) and I realized last night that it worked. I am at last free to enjoy myself there -- to just be more like Peter and not let things bother me that I have no control over.
And as I walked in the darkness (choosing to not turn on lights for some reason) through the kitchen and down the hall to the bathroom, I realized that my body knew where to turn, my hand knew where to reach out and keep myself from running into the door, that I had done that a thousand times, maybe more, and how cool is that?
I didn't grow up with a cottage in my life, but I grew into a cottage! In the book, one of the characters is Arlene -- she is the sister of Henry who has died. It is his wife and children who, along with Arlene, are spending this final week together before the cottage is sold. Arlene and Henry grew up at the cottage and Arlene feels that even though Henry somehow inherited the cottage from her parents (she never married and spent every summer there her whole life, in her own bedroom) it's not right that Henry's wife is selling it. And yet, she says nothing.
There are so many things that are never said within families. So many grievances, clashing personalities, irritations ... and good things, there are good things! (Give me time, I'm sure I'll think of them). But what I thought last night, as I wandered about a structure I have no claim on (a la Arlene) that it's the holding on that creates the problems! Just enjoy the moment. Who cares that tomorrow someone might walk through that door and change the entire dynamic. All that matters is that none of it really matters.
I have worked so hard to create a situation at the lake that works for me. Peter would be happy no matter what. He will take the garbage to the dump, fix what needs to be fixed, provide all the food and toilet paper and gas and boats and anything else that one needs for a stay at the lake. And from this point forward -- I'm not going to keep him from being taken advantage of! Where ever I saw a problem, I sought a solution.
But it's just a lot of work and in the end it just gets in the way of my own enjoyment. Really.
Everything is how you perceive it. My perception switched from headache to haven this weekend.
It's going to be a good summer!
No comments:
Post a Comment