Pebble & Mint

Note: I actually wrote this in June, but I chose this photo taken about a month later. I felt it best represented this entry.

I cannot remember the last time we opened up the cottage. It’s been ages since I’ve seen Applegate Island in June. Before we were married, I bet. Maybe twenty years ago?

So, it was a pleasant surprise to see the Cedar Cot’s Spirea bushes in bloom. G’Pa said that his mother planted these bushes along the front. Hummingbirds and butterflies enjoy the small white clusters as well as the tiger lilies next to them at the corner of the cottage, their pregnant buds just about to pop. Usually, we come in July or August just barely in time to witness their orange blossoms basking in sunshine. We have arrived today not only to help open the cottage, but to attend the Presque Isle boat show with G’Pa. It’s the first season that Allison is not with us. Therein lies a new theme for us; I suspect one of many firsts from here on out. There isn’t much to be said about it, but it wears heavy on our hearts just the same.

Opening the cottage involves removing the shutters and installing the windows; turning on the propane and lighting the pilot lights of the stove and fridge; sweeping and mopping the floor; removing cobwebs from every corner, pumping water from the lake up to the tank, and mowing the thin tall grass. We note the marks of a tough winter past: water stains indicating a roof leak, a cracked light cover to replace, a torn screen in need of mending. We unpack our bags, roll out our sleeping bags, and stake our claim to our temporary quarters. G’Pa decides to take the back bedroom next to the kitchen. This is a first, of course. I suppose he prefers it to the front bedroom, the one Allison and he always occupied. A few years back they bought a new mattress for the bed and had painted the room a light sea mist blue. It receives the morning sun and captures the sound of the waves of Grand Lake lapping against its mint-lined shore. It’s particularly beautiful in the moonlight.

At the end of the day, after G’Pa and Dude labor to install the old dock, after pounding each wood pole into Grand Lake’s rocky bottom, after lifting and bolting into place each section of deck, and after speculating loudly about replacing it someday with a new aluminum roll-out dock, it is finally time to eat. We feast on a Porterhouse steak dinner, complete with Sara’s garden fresh greens and my dilled-potato salad. The steak and its marinade are the compliments of G’Pa’s patronage to ritual. He said that as a boy, opening the cottage with his grandfather and father, they would install the same damn dock and then grill steaks for dinner afterward. Then the tradition continued as he and his father put in the docks or took them out. Now his son and he enjoy the Porterhouse steak dinner. Tradition never tasted so good.

Next day, we attended the annual boat parade over at Grand Lake Beach. I counted about 15 antique wooden boats in attendance, mostly Chris-Craft. G’Pa insisted that Dude captain the boat this time. He was resigned to stay ashore and watch the 1952 Hacker-designed boat, that he helped his father build, tour Grand Lake’s shores on this fine day of sunshine and blue sky. He restored this beautiful ride about eight years ago or so, and since then he and Allison entered the JAPADA in this boat show and parade every year. Red vinyl upholstery, lacquered mahogany wood, polished chrome fixtures; the JAPADA is quite a gem. When the engine roars to life, it’s like a gently purring dragon, its heartbeat audible a mile away. You’d think it’s a sound of contentment, but it’s merely a hint of its legendary power. It has been said that a dragon is not a thing, but an event. A fire-breather is what happens when heat, oxygen, and combustible material combine with lore. However, on this day, this dragon’s mysterious vulnerable spot was compromised. Its great flame snuffed out.  Alas, only 15 minutes into the parade the engine abruptly stopped and could not be revived. Thanks to the kindness of complete strangers observing the parade in their pontoon, our mahogany dragon was slowly towed back to shore; Geeps waiting patiently at the launch with the trailer already backed into the water.

We returned to Applegate Island sooner than planned and retreated to a sunny patch of yard to read, relax, eat red cherries and pistachios, and sip a cocktail or two. Dude left a patch of white daisies while mowing earlier, to honor what we usually miss this time of year. Sara mentioned how she occasionally physically yearns to be at Grand Lake, now that she lives so far away in Madison, WI. She asked Dude if he ever missed Applegate like she did, after all, they grew up here every single summer all through their childhood. She lamented the smell of the water, the breeze, the warmth of the sun as they sat in patches of thin grass and buttercups. As she continued to reminisce, I looked over at my daughter, braiding daisies and mint, softly singing next to the stony shore. She must be going through this now, this physical assimilation to Applegate and all its attributes that anchor our hearts to it. Then I looked over at G’Pa, his reading glasses tethered around his neck, deeply engrossed in his book. He must understand this better than anyone else on this island. He looked as though he has not heard a word.

It’s not rare to hear the wavering call of a loon, but it makes my heart leap every time I hear it. As their echo travels across the lake, the black and white checkered loon lounge in the waves only long enough for a quick glance before diving under to catch a fish. They are elusive even with their haunting calls and short soft hoots to keep in contact with each other. It is said that the male loon’s yodel is a signature sound only to its territory. So, when I hear him staking claim to the waters of Applegate Island, I know this is as unique as it gets.  This is the epitome of Applegate’s beauty, the one thing that I most identify with the island’s charm. When my daughter hears it she calls back with her own loon call. She’s getting good at it.

Naturally, there is a difference between expectation and reality. The forecast called for rain, but we received sunny clear blue skies. I imagined an army of mosquitoes hungrily awaiting my pale tender limbs, but an offshore breeze kept them in check. We hoped for a brilliant boat ride; however we got a warm, brilliant afternoon listening to loon calls and the constant slap of water on stone. Before I even stepped foot on its rocky, minty shore, I was wondering what Applegate would be like without Allison. I didn’t expect the memories to be so comforting. There is not anything here that she did not touch, didn’t plan, nor fix, nor play. She ate the steak, she cleared the cobwebs, and she laughed with us beside the fire. She fished at the end of the damned dock and caught perch just like my daughter does now.


The lake never stops caressing its pebble and mint. The mottled birch trees continue to buckle and crack so loud at night that I continue to expect one to crash down on the cottage at any moment. Instead, another day passes, the fish keep biting, and the loon keeps calling. Its echo is a recurrent reminder that life does endure beautifully.