On account of Pete missing our trip to the North Shore, I suggested that the four of us slip away for a weekend on the river at my parent's cabin. Somehow more than a year had passed since we last visited as a family. It was time.
The cabin is small and old and frumpily decorated with deer heads and blaze orange hats. Therefore it is perfect. (Obviously.)
Perfect not in a magazine photo shoot sort of way (oh my, no) but rather in that "sit by the fire and knit with your grandma's needles right in the spot where she used to knit" sort of way. Built by my grandpa and my great grandpa, this long history lends a further layer of charm (and, yes, dead animal decor).
Even our name was borrowed from this river when we were engaged, then married upon her banks.
I don't have deeper roots anywhere than here.
Thanks to a friendly neighbor who stepped in for farm chores back home we were able to go. For three quiet, glorious days beside the river. (It's a long drive so I'm not sure we have ever gone for such a short stint, but that was what we could manage this year, and we were so thankful.)
We baked cinnamon rolls in the morning and sat by the river all day. We watched geese fly overhead and listened to the wind through the trees. The kids (brave souls!) even went swimming a few times, despite the mercury barely brushing 70 and the river water cold.
Everyone chose one thing they wanted from the few days we had, and we made time for them all.
My pick? A walk (alone) in the woods.
Alone for the deep quiet of it all. Alone so no one would ask how long I would be off the trail, lying on my belly in wet moss, taking pictures of mushrooms.
For the rare