Working Vacation: Broken Boats, Dahlias, and Family Legacy

Well, my friends, sorry for the week of nothing.

The kids, the dog, and I successfully made our trek across the country to the lake house.

Before you get all judgy, this "lake house" is tiny. We are talking RV-sized stove, a shower that requires Olympic-level maneuvering, and one shared bedroom occupied by me, the kids, and the dog. Cozy is one word for it. Questionable life choices is another.

A former coworker used to call trips like this a working vacation, because every single time we come here, something needs to be fixed. This year was no exception.

The sink needed a new fixture. Not planned.

The boat is currently experiencing what I can only describe as her seasonal allergies. Apparently, the beginning of boating season means she sputters dramatically and demands attention from the mechanic before agreeing to cooperate.

The jet ski also needed a little TLC, but thankfully I am a capable enough mechanic to handle that particular problem myself.

In between all of that, I managed to install all 50 of my dahlias, along with lavender, zinnias, celosia, and peonies. I put down insecticides on my parents', my uncle's, and our own property. Because apparently relaxing isn't in my vocabulary.

Oh, and my daughter has developed this odd rash that, from a healthcare professional standpoint, is being every bit as stubborn as her mother when it comes to recovery. It's frustrating, to say the least.

But despite all of that, I am at peace here.

I would live here full-time if I could.

It is just a different sort of place.

The only box stores are Walmart and Home Depot. The population hovers around 10,000 people. Contractors are few and far between, so if you need work done, don't get your hopes up. It may take forever for someone to return your call, let alone actually show up.

Is it annoying? Absolutely.

But you know what? I wanted to be a strong, independent woman anyway.

There's something else here that keeps pulling me back, though.

Four generations of our family have come to this lake.

I miss my grandparents every single day, but being here feels like seeing pieces of their legacy scattered everywhere around me.

For me, that legacy was family.

My grandmother hosted Sunday dinners every week. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins—it was absolute chaos. A madhouse. But I can still remember walking up to the house, opening the door, and being greeted by the smell of whatever she had been cooking all afternoon.

My gosh, I miss that smell.

I miss my grandmother's laugh.

I miss my grandfather's antics.

One Sunday, he taped a sign to the front door announcing that dinner had been canceled. Naturally, we all ignored it and let ourselves in anyway, only for him to emerge and hassle us for not respecting the sign.

That was my childhood.

I was lucky.

Very lucky.

I know that now.

My husband had a very different childhood, and as the years pass, I understand more and more how those early experiences shape who we become.

So while this summer may include broken fixtures, temperamental boats, stubborn rashes, endless projects, and enough dirt under my fingernails to start my own garden center, it also includes something increasingly rare.

Time together.

Family stories.

Shared meals.

Children making memories in the same place that shaped generations before them.

I'll send updates from the lake sporadically.

Just know I haven't forgotten you, dear readers.

I'm simply busy living the stories I'll tell you about later.