that darned pink dot

not to insinuate that she's been worn thin and then mended (though i'm fairly certain she won't disagree) my friend K over at the PinkDot has got me on a minefield of memory regarding summertime visits to the lake (beach)

my favorite memories of the beach as a child start the night before the trip - - planning the picnic, making the make aheads, packing up the towels and the tanning lotion (not sunscreen back then), and the rabid anticipation the night before, nearly not able to sleep.
the "day of" was waking up early and packing the cooler and the box of non-cooler items, double and triple checking the list so as not to forget the matches, the charcoal, the fluid, the can opener, the plates... the long long list of the remembered.
then packing the car, the towels, the blanket, the cooler, the box, the book - good heavens don't forget the book.
and then, the drive. the glorious drive with no air conditioning (not in our cars back in the day, too dear a luxury back then) and the windows rolled down with the already warming air - - cooled only by the speed - - rushing through the car, blowing our long hair in willy nilly patterns across our faces and above our heads. the drive that halfway through revealed the forgotten item - - left sitting very obviously on the counter top, so as not to forget it. the drive that felt hours longer than it was and was only shortened by the "soundtrack" broadcast on Honey Radio and our off-key-and-could-care-less sing-along versions of the old songs i grew up on.

and now the trouble begins:
the agony of finding a place that's far enough away from the crazies to feel safe, but near enough to watch
the ritual of the unpacking and the setting up of the grill and the immediate beginning of the cooking (because in our excitement we, of course, neglected breakfast) and the laying out of plates and dishes and the chagrin with which we realize, yet again, that we packed way more food than we can eat and shudder to think of packing it all up and lugging it home
the wait between the lunch and the swimming
the bone-chilling cold of the lake water in july (because it NEVER really "warms up" until august)
the murk of the water, the little fish, the sea-weed; all harbingers of the evil of actually swimming in lake water
the scorch of the sun bearing down so hard that the evil is forgotten (more like ignored)
the shivering icy cold skin from an hour too quickly passed in the water
the post-swim nibbling that i've never been able to outgrow
and the post food nap in the sun, with periodic rolling to even out the baking

the packing to go home was never as bad as i worried it would be and was always less agonizing than the walk back to the car, lugging all the repacked whatnot behind us.

the ride home, nearly as glorious at the way there, tempered only by a well earned fatigue and the murky seaweed smell of lake in our hair. the open windows still sang of summer and often a stop for ice cream was just about half way home.

and finally, home, and the absolute drudgery of unpacking the stuff - every shred of excitement about this trip to the beach behind us and nothing but frugality and good housekeeping nudging us to do the right thing and put it all away - for lunch tomorrow, which never tastes as good when it's on the back porch...

this ritual with my mom, the summer ritual of a day at the lake... this has molded the who of me; has determined the shape of my soul...