My boy is back!
He was happy, full of good stories about camp, but also really ready to come home. What more could one ask? I'll admit it… I was sort of nervous that we'd get there and he'd ask to stay longer. I'm going to choose to believe that it was his dear mother that had him ready to come home, and not the fact that he was SO looking forward to air conditioning and showers made just for one.
We spent our Saturday baking bread and cookies, cleaning up, unpacking (oh the laundry!) and more or less lounging in our pajamas most of the day. By Sunday we were rested and ready for adventure, so we headed to the lake (which is really the Colorado River).
This particular body of water is fantastic on a summer day because it is fed from the bottom of a dam. It stays VERY cold no matter the weather.
Usually, we visit "our" lake during the week when it's like a ghost town, so at first I was rather put off by the multitudes of weekenders.
Add to that the fact that I forgot my camera (the muddied photos here are from my phone) and the plates for our picnic, and we got off to a rough start.
But when I settled in on my blanket with my book (My Antonia – so so good!), looking up between paragraphs to see all of my men splashing in the water, all together again, it was like exhaling.
In the end, it was kind of nice, the ragtag band of souls come down to the river for respite.
In the air was the smell of cigar smoke, charcoal and cooking meat. There was Tejano music and teenage boys bobbing their heads in time. Their contrived nonchalance was a show for the whispering, giggling girls who gave them sideways glances.
There was a father, taking seriously his post at the grill and a grandfather looking over his shoulder in obvious skepticism over his son's ability to produce an edible dinner.
There was a pink-cheeked baby asleep, mouth open, on a towel beneath a grandmother who fanned herself with a Reader's Digest.
In the lake a young papa reassured a tearful, reluctant swimmer in pink arm floaties. Her mother waved a bottle of sunscreen at them and called out a familiar reproach in an unfamiliar tongue.
Sparkling ripples circled a man who stood shoulder deep and pushed his lady along. She lay stretched on an air mattress. He dribbled water from his finger tips onto her stomach until she opened her eyes and gave him a smile that made me look away.
The cicadas sang overhead, their songs mingling with the sound of boat motors, the laughter of my children, muffled conversations and contentment.
On this day, summer doesn't seem like an oppressor. On this day summer is a timeless, hazy, coconut-scented dream.
You can read all about cicadas, the official minstrels of summer, today at