For six decades, assorted members of my “people” have been heading north to Maple Lake. For YEARS I have attempted to negotiate strenuously with my childhood friend to go with me. Finally the stars — well actually, swim team, dance class, and work schedules — aligned so that my lifelong buddy and her two children could accompany me. Unfortunately, the time they were available meant that the four of us would be opening the cabin for the season. Unlocking the cabin door after a -30 degree winter in the Canadian wilderness is always an adventure, and experienced cottagers know that turning the key to the cabin door might unleash the unexpected. In our case it merited a commemorative t-shirt with the words “I Survived The Cabin Opening."

Our nine hour trip began after Cam’s swim practice and telling Sherri that the nail polish needed to stay home because shiny “petal pink” would attract snapping turtles. It was the first of many times to come that I would see the “face” from my dear friend. Due to our late departure we arrived at our destination at 1 am. I suspected Sherri wanted to turn around and head home after navigating the gravel road entry to our place in pitch darkness. Seeing her face when we opened the cabin door made it official. What we saw was “just plain nuts,” which frankly I thought was very apropos for anything belonging to my family. A squirrel had taken up residence over the winter and although he or she was nowhere to be found, evidence of its ‘homemaking’ was everywhere.  

I was able to convince Sherri and her offspring not to run out of the room screaming with the prospect that things would look brighter after a good night’s sleep. I told them that in the fall I wash the sheets, make the beds and put a protective plastic cover over them. I sent Sherri and the kids off in search of our fragrant candles (couldn’t hurt) while I went into what was to be our room, lifted up the plastic and discovered a layer of perfectly placed acorns left by our furry friend. I quickly scooped them up and hid, I mean placed, them in a dresser drawer. I had things looking “normal” only to look up to see Sherri standing before me with a Yankee candle filled to the brim with acorns.
So much for things getting better in the light of day; the hot water heater didn’t work, preventing us from taking a much-needed shower after cleaning up rodent poop, the pontoon boat that was supposed to be delivered from storage, wasn’t, and the plastic bin that held our toilet paper supply was found with the lid and contents M.I.A.  

The kids were anxious to get out on the lake, so I called my retired buddy on the other side of Maple, Mr. Troutman (or as my kids say “TROUT MAAAAAAAN” which causes me to smirk every time I say his name). He agreed to help me put my little 9.9 Johnson outboard motor on the fishing boat. “Trout MAAAAN” arrived, looked me in the face and asked, “Do you have any lower lube” to which I responded, “I am a cancer survivor without ovaries or a uterus. What do you think?” Once he clarified his question and the motor was in place, Sherri and I took the kids out to the “big” lake. We had just checked out the beaver dam and were on our way home when the motor died. A word of advice: if you find yourself in a similar circumstance NEVER say “Well, at least it’s not raining”.

Later that night I insisted Sherri and the kids relax by the fire while I made popcorn. I put the oil in the pan, turned on the burner and POOF — two feet of flames shot up and nearly singed my eyebrows off! It was then I discovered where the missing toilet paper was. Mrs. Mouse had used it for bedding inside the stovetop for her now “flambéed” family. With all of us already teetering on the brink of being thrown into group therapy, I made the executive decision not to share this recent development.  

We did manage to have some fun kayaking, swimming and bonding, and I am a big believer that in time you can “find the funny” even in the most horrendous of experiences. In the meantime, the t-shirts should arrive in 7 to 10 business days.

How did you spend your summer vacation?

It's the social pop quiz of the month. And in the Midwest, where summer weather is a fleeting occasion, it's more like an exam — answer wrong, and your dad cool-factor is gone faster than you can say 'minivan.'

As a kid, summer meant a trip to my great-grandparents farm in Manassass, Virginia. This 200-acre piece of land was a dream for a young boy — rolling hills, a meandering river, and a pond with a mythical large catfish that I spent a great deal of time trying to catch. Even the trip there was an adventure. My mom and dad would load up our family vehicle — a 1968 Ford Galaxie 500 convertible  — making me a special place to sleep just behind the back seat where the convertible top was stored when it was down.

My memories of childhood include vivid recollections of that car, certain roadside stops along the way that became family traditions, and all the adventures on my great-grandparents farm. In so many ways it has been the standard by which all my vacations since have been measured. The Galaxie was sold a long time ago; my great-grandparents have been dead for almost 30 years; and the farm has since been consumed by the outrageous growth of Northern Virginia.  

It's hard for the vacations of today to measure up. Beyond the demise of my childhood summer playground are other changes that have occurred in travel, technology and my life. My ideas of summer vacation are also now influenced by my wife’s plans. A large convertible has been replaced with a minivan. Kids can’t just be thrown into a car now, but must be strapped into child seats. Books and sign games have been replaced with books on disc and movies on DVD players. So the memories of years gone by cannot be repeated in the same way today — things are a little more sterile.

This year my wife suggested that our family vacation be at a flute camp — she wanted to be certified as a flute instructor. To say this was not my idea of a rollicking, memory-creating trip would be an understatement, but I played along. Since this camp was in Minnesota, I made plans for a trip not consumed by the destination, but thoughtful about the journey. We took the ferry across Lake Michigan, stopped in several places in Wisconsin and visited a children’s museum, zoo, and carousel. I thought we would create great memories for all of us along the way.

The reality was that the camp was just as fun and memorable as my well-planned drive to get there. I have to admit that telling people we went to a flute camp for our summer vacation does lead to some groans. It may not win the ‘best summer trip’ prize, but it did create memories that we will never forget and introduced us to people who will always be friends. In the end, the best answer to “How did you spend the summer?” is that I spent it with my family.

A lot of things are different for our kids than they were for us. We didn’t have home theaters, decent video games, or twenty-four-seven episodes of iCarly and the Regular Show. But what has changed everything are cell phones and the privacy they offer our children. Before my son started middle school I had made up my mind that I would not cave to the pressure. 

“You’ll change your tune,” a friend told me. “What if he misses the bus?”
Cut to my son tearing open a box containing a new cell phone while his little sister calculates the number of months she has to wait for hers under the “big-brother-broke-them-in” algorithm. I wasn’t convinced he needed a phone, but he wanted one and I was weak. Or maybe noble, triumphing over my jealousy. Having a personal phone — not to mention a modest texting allowance — in the 6th grade? The luxury.

Back in the olden days we didn’t even have cordless phones. Telephones were all attached to a wall, either in your home or in public. You carried a quarter for a payphone and everyone could see you cry when your mom forgot to pick you up from soccer practice. If you missed the bus you didn’t call anyone; you walked home. When you got sick at school you had to use the office phone with its rotary dial and plastic cubes across the bottom. To have a private conversation at home you stretched the phone cord down the hall, pinching it in your bedroom door. Those deliriously fortunate enough to have a phone in their rooms knew their parents were listening in from the kitchen.

Today’s kids don’t have to worry about parents overhearing conversations, partly because phones are rarely used for speaking to one another anymore. The important information is all relayed via text. Now kids speak in an ever-evolving code of letters and symbols, incessantly tapping at tiny keyboards and screens their parents never had. It’s a miracle our olden days thumbs didn’t fall off like the vestigial tail from lack of use.

Popular as texting has become, I still figured my son only used the phone as a status symbol and to call me on the [many] days I forgot it was my turn at carpool. I didn’t realize he was texting at all until I started. When my texts racked up I worried about the potential overage costs so I logged into my account. While I was slightly under my plan limit of two hundred texts, my son was up to eight hundred twenty—two weeks into the billing cycle. I immediately called my provider to request unlimited texting.

I sensed a golden opportunity. His excess was just what I needed to institute the partial pay policy I should have started when we gave him the phone. I confronted him.
   “But, Mom, it’s not like you can just end a conversation.”
Proof that my son is not yet a man.
I told him that instead of making him pay for the overage, he was going to chip in ten dollars a month toward his phone bill.
   “But then I’ll have less money.”
I didn’t laugh. I did however take my platinum opportunity to ask for his phone, and read his texts.

If I were a terrible person I would transcribe them here, because they would make you laugh and reminisce over everything that was good and true and hasn’t changed about the summer before 7th grade. But I won’t. Because I am a good mother and because I’m beyond grateful for what I read there, in his private conversations with friends, both boys and girls.

For now, for today—though he doesn’t realize it—my baby is as innocent as the day I brought him home wrapped in flannel and smelling like spit-up. If only there were an unlimited plan for that.