Don’t plan too much for lake trip

The summer after our less than successful excursion in a borrowed RV, my husband, Derek, and I decided to rent a lake cabin for a week. Indoor plumbing, electricity, a lovely beach, what could go wrong?

I sat down to make a list of things to pack. Four double-sided pages later, I called my husband’s cell phone.

“Whatcha up to, Hon,” he asked.

“42 pairs of socks!” I screeched.

“Huh?”

“Six people times seven days equals 42 pairs of socks – and underwear and shirts and. …” I paused to catch my breath.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Just throw some stuff in a couple paper bags and we’re good to go. Besides, who wears socks at the lake?”

Speechless, I hung up and began to pack. Soon the dining room table was covered with backpacks, lifejackets and beach toys. The living room was littered with grocery bags full of food.

The children scattered once they saw my clipboard and whistle. When Derek returned from gassing up the vehicles I could tell he wanted to join them. “Uh … you sure we really need all …”

A shrill blast of the whistle stopped him in midsentence, and he began to load the vehicles. It took a 4x4 pickup and a minivan to hold it all.

Forty minutes later, we reversed the process. The kids ran to the water while I stocked the cupboards. Derek wandered in to the kitchen.

“Er…I brought the fishing poles,” he said and then mumbled something under his breath.

“What’s that dear?”

“I brought my tackle box, too.”

“That’s nice. Have fun fishing!”

“Well, I would but … I forgot to bring bait.” All kinds of lectures raced through my mind. Throw everything in a couple paper bags indeed! I held my tongue. It was only the first day of vacation; I knew there’d be other opportunities.

An hour later I was back in town at Big 5. I try to avoid sporting goods stores, but it was better than staying at the lake watching four boys try to fish without bait. I decided to let their father have that honor while I returned to town. Taking the list my husband provided, I found the nearest sales clerk.

“Do you have Balls of Fire?” I asked. He sputtered and tried to compose himself.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” he said, when he recovered, “but we’re all out. Is there something else I can help you with?”

I narrowed my eyes and asked, “Do you have hot pink fish balls?”

There are reasons I avoid these places.

I returned to the cabin to find my husband and sons had taken our small aluminum fishing boat out. The engine ran just long enough to get them to the middle of the lake. Gas wasn’t on the list my husband gave me.

Derek rowed them back while they whined, “Can’t you go any faster?”

Six days later my husband and I sat holding hands in lawn chairs and watched the sun set over the beautiful blue-green lake. The colors seem more vivid here, the air much softer. The tall oak that shaded our afternoons rustled in the breeze. A duck family waddled past the dock. The days had passed in a blur of boating, swimming and fishing. We drank in this last evening at the lake.

“Look!” Derek whispered. Overhead a bald eagle soared, swooping silently across the sky. I slipped into our cabin to rouse the almost asleep boys. Awed whispers echoed as the eagle disappeared into the deepening dusk. The children traipsed back to bed, but our 7-year-old, stopped, looked up and whispered, “Thank you.”

My husband and I returned to our lawn chairs. “Was it worth all the work?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied.

Looking down, I noticed our feet were bare. Perhaps 42 pairs of socks weren’t necessary after all.