How It Ought To Be

Over the weekend we headed up to Vermont for a whirlwind whiplash weekend. (How’s that for alliteration!) With the exception of Saturday morning’s activities, this really is how life is meant to be spent.

My usual summer bitter mood is creeping in, though I am trying like hell to fight it. The summer bitterness comes from the fact that I am still expected to go into work, despite the fact that the weather outside is perfectly sunny and in the 80s. Every year at this time I lament the fact that I am gainfully employed, and start looking for the previously untapped get rich scheme. I get suckered into things like the promise of winning $2.5 million dollars for purchasing a Reese’s peanut butter cup. And then not only am I not $2.5 million richer, I am sporting extra flesh about the hips as a result. Then the summer bitterness spirals into flabby bitterness.
But, as I said, I am trying like hell to fight the summer blues. As of today there are 44 more days until the great sailing trip to Lake Champlain. And the weekend adventures will have to sustain me until then.  (And I am editing the crap out of the book right now, in preparation for selling it.  Bitterness is motivating!)

Saturday morning we went to Chipman Point Marina to celebrate the life and mourn the passing of our dear friend Dick. Dick and his family owned the marina and we had kept our boat there when we first started sailing together in 1999. On Saturday morning as I was in the ladies room I could hear the conversation from the porch below waft through the window.  Dick often popped in and out of the conversation as he made his way across the porch and into the marina office.  I paused as I washed my hands and felt tears come to my eyes. I could swear I heard his voice.  It belonged there, and I've heard it from that very spot so many times.  I’ll never get to hear one of his stories through that window ever again. The memorial service was beautiful, and exactly what he would have wanted. The stories shared were funny and sad, every attendee laughed and cried. His spirit is still at Chipman Point, though the place will never be the same without him.

We left Chipman Point and headed over to the campground on Lake Bomoseen. Todd’s sister, her boyfriend and their kids were already there setting up their camp. We set up ours then all piled into the dive boat for a swim on the lake. We cut the motor in the center of the lake and jumped in. Then we all howled at the cold; it was only May 22 and the lake probably just thawed earlier that week. My muscles grew stiff from the chill, and we decided that taking turns on the tube was a better option.  I grinned widely as I clung to the tube, and felt the icy spray from the boat's wake in my face. 

Sunday morning found us back on the lake for another adventure. This time we headed over to the beach, parked the boat on the sand bar and played in the water all afternoon. Sandwiches were inhaled, sticks thrown for dogs, and skin glowed pink from the sun. Soft serve was eaten (OK, maple soft serve? It’s like having breakfast in heaven!) and then we piled back into the truck for the long ride back to Rhode Island and to real life.

It was exactly how a weekend ought to be, and I am trying not to rail against the injustice of the necessity of the paycheck.  But indoor confinement in a cubible is starting to make me itchy again.