Greetings from Dunworkin

This is what I woke up to this morning:

This is why I come here.

Greetings from Dunworkin, the appropriately-named lake house that my friend Bridget's grandfather made his retirement retreat. It's a perfect lake house, built in the 20s around a working stone fireplace. All the original fireplace tools are hung around it. There are also some iron tools and objects on the mantel that we can't identify. They came with the house.

The rest of the place is comfortably ensconced somewhere between the 50s and 70s. It is designed for optimum accommodation of maximum family, towels, toys, books, and wet bathing suits. Hooks are plentiful. A new sceptic system was installed last year, so now we can flush every time. We can flush just for the hell of it. There's a hodgepodge of furniture, mostly inherited from other homes and meant for lounging with a book. There are only a couple small bedrooms, so the attic has at least 3 beds amid the stored clothing and jigsaw puzzles.

I prefer to sleep on the futon in the front porch room, under an assortment of quilts (including the requisite multi-colored afghan). I was about to say it's the next best thing to sleeping outside, but actually, it's better. I get the fresh air, crickets, birds and waves slapping the dock, without actually having to sleep on the ground or worry about spiders.

It's a true retreat, in that time has little meaning. There is no schedule, no agenda. There are things to do if you want. But often, it's preferable to do nothing.

In Krzysztof Kieslowski's Three Colors: Blue (fanatics beware: I am about to get details wrong or incomplete), Juliette Binoche plays a famous composer's widow. She is asked, "And what do you do?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
With a look of utter satisfaction: "Absolutely nothing." Absolument rien.
I often aspire to that moment.

In general, we make coffee, sit in the screen room pictured here, and look at the lake. This morning, Bridget's aunt & uncle came over to visit. Uncle Ray is one kick-ass water skiier. I had my first, second and third attempts, all unsuccessful. Still, a few turns around the lake in a motorboat ain't a bad way to spend the morning. It can only be followed by drinking and sandwiches. Limbs softened from playing in the water. Pastrami & swiss on white bread. It's a level of contentment often only reached by children. I must do this more often.

This afternoon, there will be no phone calls or e-mails. (Though I've heard that there's a website that will send your friends a voicemail from Samuel L. Jackson, telling them to go see Snakes on a Plane. I might need to get in on that.) There will probably be a nap.

There will definitely be more drinking, lake watching, and games of Would You Rather/ Which Would You Destroy.
There will probably be something thrown on the grill.
There might be reading, board games and/or ice cream.
Or we might not be bothered.

Bathing suits count as underwear, right?