away over swells and sails. No streetlights or lane markers here. And the trees are not the kind I worry about in my own backyard, yellowing and sparse. They are grand, gracious ladies in evergreen dresses; they are here to soothe, to whisper reassurances. Stendhal defined beauty as âthe promise of happiness.â I walk out onto the rickety pier and let the wind with its odor of grass and Green Bay hit me from all sides. Itâs possible when this idea occurred to him, Stendhal was standing in just such a place.
My grandparents are here too, invisible comfort, solicitous ghosts. One waving from the kitchen, the other still in bed with her tray of coffee and toast. They traveled the world but always returned, for there was no place they found lovelier than Gray Logs. My husband and I sleep in their room, shower in their once off-limits-to-kids bathroom. Though decades have passed since they died, it feels a little bit like trespassing. The girls have staked out the upstairs. We make short shrift of unpacking, and with bathing suits under our shorts and water shoes in hand, the celebration begins.
No swimming for me, not just yet. I have a ritual I must attend to on every visit. I say hello to the house by kissing the smooth gray banister, by shedding my shoes and running my toes over the flagstones, by opening the linen closet and counting the blue-and-white-striped towels.
Iâm expressing my thanks for safe arrival. Not just this one in 2002, but all my arrivals. Here on the braided living roomrug, center of the house, where everything is stored, no whisper or footstep is excluded. I listen, breathe deeply, sniff for the raucous poker games on the folding card table, red and blue plastic chips careening about like unsure bicycles, Bicycle cards leaping when John or Chuck or Nan slam down a faux-furious fist. The sweep of our grandfatherâs terrycloth robe, his tray of perfect over-easies and sausage. And my father vexing the floor-boards with early morning back stretches and leg lifts, creaking inside the body and out. I touch the maroon slip-covered sofa. Down into the fibers I go like a medical detective, uncovering wet towels, shed bathing suits, the crumpled wrappers of great-grandfatherâs red anise, which he used to lure us little ones closer until we hated the candies, even as adults. He was too old and his forehead too shiny. Between the polished floor planks went 221 baby fingers picking up lost cinnamon imperials. I inhale the dander from Scotties and Westies, bassets, pointers, and mutts. Thirty-nine years of no-see-ums, yellow jackets, and dust.
I say hello to the house and then Iâm ready for a swim, one of many this August, with its record heat. The water level rises and falls, depending on snowfall and conditions north in Lake Superior. Weâve seen the rocky beach grow by a hundred feet or, worse, waves lap at the solarium windows. There was talk then of moving the house back, but my grandmother, with her second sight, was adamantâwait, she said, it
will
recede. Now we slip and stumble over the rocks to reach deep water, that creamy green-black essence like liquid malachite.
I wonder if the experience of time varies, like metabolism, in relation to a creatureâs size. A second may be long in the life of the horsefly, buzzing around my head, affecting everythingfrom the rate of a vibration to holding that exact angle as it approaches my naked stretch of blood-delicious skin. For humans there is infinite variability: dashing-dream-and-movie time, suffering-pain-bored-ugly-chore time, when we are aware of every second ticking. Long ago, the Chinese maintained two separate official calendars, one for the peasant, which followed the seasons, and one for the scribe, a pure number system. At home we are scribes, rousing in the dark to the numeral 6 and a sound like a security breach. But here we are peasants relishing food, water, and blankets under the skies. We have
My grandparents are here too, invisible comfort, solicitous ghosts. One waving from the kitchen, the other still in bed with her tray of coffee and toast. They traveled the world but always returned, for there was no place they found lovelier than Gray Logs. My husband and I sleep in their room, shower in their once off-limits-to-kids bathroom. Though decades have passed since they died, it feels a little bit like trespassing. The girls have staked out the upstairs. We make short shrift of unpacking, and with bathing suits under our shorts and water shoes in hand, the celebration begins.
No swimming for me, not just yet. I have a ritual I must attend to on every visit. I say hello to the house by kissing the smooth gray banister, by shedding my shoes and running my toes over the flagstones, by opening the linen closet and counting the blue-and-white-striped towels.
Iâm expressing my thanks for safe arrival. Not just this one in 2002, but all my arrivals. Here on the braided living roomrug, center of the house, where everything is stored, no whisper or footstep is excluded. I listen, breathe deeply, sniff for the raucous poker games on the folding card table, red and blue plastic chips careening about like unsure bicycles, Bicycle cards leaping when John or Chuck or Nan slam down a faux-furious fist. The sweep of our grandfatherâs terrycloth robe, his tray of perfect over-easies and sausage. And my father vexing the floor-boards with early morning back stretches and leg lifts, creaking inside the body and out. I touch the maroon slip-covered sofa. Down into the fibers I go like a medical detective, uncovering wet towels, shed bathing suits, the crumpled wrappers of great-grandfatherâs red anise, which he used to lure us little ones closer until we hated the candies, even as adults. He was too old and his forehead too shiny. Between the polished floor planks went 221 baby fingers picking up lost cinnamon imperials. I inhale the dander from Scotties and Westies, bassets, pointers, and mutts. Thirty-nine years of no-see-ums, yellow jackets, and dust.
I say hello to the house and then Iâm ready for a swim, one of many this August, with its record heat. The water level rises and falls, depending on snowfall and conditions north in Lake Superior. Weâve seen the rocky beach grow by a hundred feet or, worse, waves lap at the solarium windows. There was talk then of moving the house back, but my grandmother, with her second sight, was adamantâwait, she said, it
will
recede. Now we slip and stumble over the rocks to reach deep water, that creamy green-black essence like liquid malachite.
I wonder if the experience of time varies, like metabolism, in relation to a creatureâs size. A second may be long in the life of the horsefly, buzzing around my head, affecting everythingfrom the rate of a vibration to holding that exact angle as it approaches my naked stretch of blood-delicious skin. For humans there is infinite variability: dashing-dream-and-movie time, suffering-pain-bored-ugly-chore time, when we are aware of every second ticking. Long ago, the Chinese maintained two separate official calendars, one for the peasant, which followed the seasons, and one for the scribe, a pure number system. At home we are scribes, rousing in the dark to the numeral 6 and a sound like a security breach. But here we are peasants relishing food, water, and blankets under the skies. We have
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