Signs of the summer to come

A large raptor-like bird has flown ahead of me on the lane that leads to our cottage.

Today, I bring a few must haves for the larder and a new mop to finish the last of the work in preparation for the summer.

There are only the bathroom and kitchen floors to be swept and mopped for the official opening of Benem Cottage 2016.

This is really late for me.

Usually I begin as soon as the snow has left the track that leads to the cottage, most probably in late April.

Then, with a fire in the wood stove, I’ll begin the undoing of winter.  This year I was busy with other things and I didn’t even begin these yearly ministrations until the last week.

Those early days have been part of the fairy tale that I tell myself about the rustic cottage on the lake, a female fantasy of clean, dusted, washed and in its own way, an elegant space.

These are the times when I re-hang the newly washed and ironed crocheted edgings across the tops of the newly clean living room windows, when I lay out the beautiful flowered forties-era table cloth and fill the enameled pitchers with wild flowers.

I play the music I love while I create my own fable in the quiet of early May.

I savor the collection of things that we’ve accumulated over the last 30 years.

There is my grandmother’s brown betty tea pot snugged into a niche in the kitchen a few feet away from the lovely glass fronted cupboard that belongs in a far fancier abode. Each fills me with delight.

There are blue Ball Jars with glass tops and wire bales filled with peppercorns, rice, tea bags and such. They glisten in the sun streaming from the skylight above.

The porcelain topped table, from my mother’s house in Florida, is on wheels now and can masquerade as an island for food prep if needed. It’s a great place to roll out dough or set up a bar.

There are two ancient wooden sewing tables that I bought from a garage sale on Howlett Hill Road. Well used by others, one serves as a desk in my son’s room and the other waits behind the door in the front bedroom for its assignment.

That front bedroom with its enormous windows looking out over the lake is painted in stark white. Its brass bed and quilted coverlet could vie for a page in one of the country magazines. At least I think so.

And lying across the bottom of the brass bed is a comforter given to me by my sister, Kathleen, who so loved staying there. It is not a pricy piece, but because it was from her, it has earned a place in my rustic fantasy.

Still, when the summer begins and the family and friends fill the cottage, its decks and beach, there is another delight.

The crocheted lace is still lovely but unnoted. The flowered tablecloth has returned to the cupboard to hide from the exuberance of children and men who need the bare wood table for their conversations.

The cottage, no longer the mystical creation of my ministrations, is now a place to enjoy the presence of others, their lives and leavings.

A screen door slams shut, the grill almost never cools down, water toys and towels hang along the railings of the deck, wet footprints mark the once clean floors, board games fill other hours and the music of the easy times is backdrop.

The cottage becomes the stage for the reality unique to each year.

I watched that big bird perched in the oak by the water’s edge. He and another sailed off on the winds across the lake.

Were they part of my imagining or the harbinger of the coming summer?