Our narrow, tree-lined camp road is still slumbering under its winter blanket, waiting for a string of warm days to melt the still pristine snow.  The cottage at its end, hard by the lake, also waits, home, perhaps to small critters who sought shelter against the season’s precipitation and frigid temperatures.  The lake, never alone, speaks only in its almost springtime voice, accented by calls of returning wildlife.

This Covid winter has been long, isolating, cold and dispiriting, sometimes so much so that even thoughts of summer moments were impossible.  Will it ever be warm again?  Will we ever be able to find solace in the feel of sun on our backs as we dig our hands in the soil, luxuriating in the smell of the born-again earth? Can we conjure planting and caring for our gardens, of eating from the table of local bounty?  Can we recall what a tomato from the garden smells like, tastes like?  It did seem a stretch with more than 6 inches of snow falling in less than a day.

But, as ever, spring is coming, if only in small pieces, geese flying north, a day of sunlight here, warmer temperatures there and water in the basement from a mountain of melting snow. Lawns and garden beds will reappear with the detritus of winter demanding attention. A new kind of “to do” list will appear and the dirt tracked in will change to grass clippings and garden soil.

I am beginning to dream of the summer to come, my family, my children and grandchildren sharing the joy of togetherness in our rustic retreat.  I am dreaming a dream post Covid, when social distancing is something we remember rather than practice. Friends gathering for no particular reason save perhaps a casual meal, a libation and time spent in the quiet summer evenings.   “Drop by anytime,” I invite them to share.  As I dream, I am trying to remember the sounds of summer, the soft splash of water against the shoreline, the screams and laughter of children, ice in glasses, the whirr of the fans in summer bedrooms, spring peepers, crickets, cicadas in the trees and birds calling to their young to fly with them. No TV, no central air or any air conditioning for that matter.

We are people who go to the lake because it is simpler, because the spaces are simple, the furniture is old, even shabby but still useful.  We go because we can forgo the trappings of a digital world, despite the omnipresence of cell phone, ipads and such.  When a soft breeze calls us to play scrabble on the dock or a mirror clear lake invites a kayak ride,  or when friends appear to spend time, and at our ages, time is a valuable commodity, we feel blessed.  Hurry is a forbidden word, a taboo idea … except now when I wish the virus to be a thing of the past and I urge the sun to hurry its job on those narrow camp roads,