En Vacance

For the past few years, our Julys have been a complicated dance: weeks spent in my mother-in-law’s house in Utica; weekends in her idyllic but tiny cabin on the shore of the St. Lawrence River. Because the River is seven hours from Jersey City, we cannot make the trip in a weekend; because the River house is so small, we cannot all stay there for a week. So, I packed and unpacked, did laundry, forgot teddy in one place and the Tevas in another.

This year, suddenly, a new plan: how about renting a house on the River, just down the road?

(Cue the sound of heavenly angels, a choir of Thoreauvian sages.)

So, we have rented a charming, plain vanilla cottage and hired a babysitter for the mornings. The girls wander down the road at 8:30 and play till lunch. We read and write till one or two. I sit at the dining room table overlooking the River, trees framing the view, Wolfe Island in the distance, the muffled sound of children playing at Cedar Point State Park off to the side. My husband sits at the other end of the house, doing his work.

What could be better?