Sarah Too

Photo credit: Joseph T. Meirose IV, Full Framework Photography

At the end of this week, the Mister, Bman, and I are going to my heart's physical home. We head to the St. Lawrence, to a beautiful region called The 1000 Islands, where the river water is clear, the nights are cool, and the days are nothing short of magical. My family has vacationed there for 3, now FOUR, generations. In honor of this momentous pilgrammage, here is a reprint of an untitled short descriptive essay I penned when I was in middle school. It is about my grandparents' cottage on Tar Island on the Canadian side of the St. Lawrence. It was a place of many happy memories for my family and me. Enjoy the flowery language!

I sometimes think of a whispering zephyr gently flowing past my warm face on a resplendent June day. I imagine the sun softly warming my arms and legs, as I gaze intently over the islands and water of the St. Lawrence River. I seee the graceful flight of a sea gull overhead. The sky is a indescribable, brilliant blue with puffy, cotton-like clouds swimming through the heavenly air high above. Scanning along the horizon, a lemon-colored butterfly floats past me to land on a budding milkweed. I have been resting on a bulky rock next to a small reed patch close to shore. A hill rises at a slow grade behind me.

The hill is covered with wild growing grass, ant-hills, wild flowers, and sand. Without any shoes on, and shorts exposing my legs, the weeds create a terrible itch. At the top of the hill, to the left of the cottage, there is a natural sand patch that is used by the grandchildren of the family as a sandbox. About twenty feet away from the "sandbox," there is the deck.

The deck has maroon floor boards and a railing that was replaced last summer. The deck wraps around the small, thee and a half bedroom cottage on all sides except the back. A red canoe is stored under the deck for the winter. Entering the sliding glass doors, I stand between the living and the eating area.

The living half of the room has, to my left, two orange-cushioned, wide chairs and between them an old, blue, washed-out chemical jug from Kodak. The chair block another set of sliding glass doors directly next to the one I entered. A round table with a green tablecloth holds a large radio/tape player, 1981-89 Reader's Digest magazines, an old Ellery Queen magazine, and aged binoculars for peering out at passing boats. Above the table is a stuffed parrot perched on a swing. A couch sits under the window on the side wall with a square, white table next to it. An ugly, yellow lamp stands on the top of the table along with yellowed newspapers. Best of all, a leather swivel chair near the far wall where Grandpa sat to tell about "Baby Bumper Buggies" while I sat on his lap to listen along with my brothers and laugh at the funny stories he told. That was not as important as the swivel footstool that matches the chair. We would spin on there until we got in trouble with Mom and then tumble on the floor with dizziness. The fireplace, used for roasting marshmallows, sits black and dusty over white stones. I remember playing with the stones when instructed not to. In the eating area, a large white table rests on a multi-colored braided rug with six chairs to accompany the table. The plastic-like chairs have orange cushions for comfort. A clock stands on the wall, but it has no batteries. Wind chimes hang in the window on the right wall. On the table, the original plans for the cottage have been pulled out of hiding.

The hallway kitchen houses the same, unused sugar from two years ago in the same green container next to the stove. The drawers hold all the same utensils, and the same dishcloth is in the sink. The hallways turns left at the stove. A door at the left leads to a bathroom with the same three toothbrushes ion the small sink counter and a towel hanging from the vertical rack. At the end of the hall, there is a bedroom with bunk beds covered with royal blue blankets and a doorless closet containing a tan bureau and empty hangers. A white blanket lies neatly folded on the top shelf. Every single window in the cottage as white, vertical blinds. The hallway takes you right past the back door entrance, where the phone is, past the sun room on the left, a miniature refrigerator and washer on the right, and then the end of the hall where the dryer is. There is one equal-sized bed at the wall facing the the far wall. The crib that was used for the grandchildren has been dismantled.

The room at right has a full-sized bed with a doorless closetlike the rooms down the hall and across the hall. An armoir is at the farwall in the right corner and contains various sorts of amusement since no TV is to be found at the house. Throughout the cottage, the strong odor of moth balls presides.

Leaving to go down to the boathouse, I notice a paper plate doll I made for Grandma a few years ago.

The boathouse is fairly new. It was made after the docks. The right dock is rotting and leans to the left. The left dock has been repaired. The boat, nicknamed "The Butterfly" by my brother, is tied to the right dock, for heaven's knows why. The storage closets holds yard tools, various nautical items, and hardware chests.

I enter the boat to leave because Dad gas done all the checks on the cottage for the summer season. No one stays long anymore, just the day. There is no time to stay, or no one makes time. It is too sad for some of my relatives to go for even just a day, mostly because Grandma and Grandpa are gone. It still is my favorite spot to visit, get in a boat, and not worry.

Photo credit: Joseph T. Meirose IV, Full Framework Photography