September 1, 2025 – 7:24 am
Morning’s too early. All wrapped up yet. Not enough blanket. Too much blanket. Numb arms. Achy legs. Toothache hips. Nightmares. I need the sleep that makes a man thoughtful, motivated—smart enough to know when to keep his mouth, eyes, and ears shut.
Another sunrise like this, orange and pink over a lake so smooth it looks frozen, and I’ll be foggy and out of sorts forever. Now, seasons change in an instant. Days flash. Right before my baggy eyes.
Limbed and trimmed trees yesterday. Burned brush. Screwed a red birdhouse to the trunk of the giant cedar. Drove to Rocket City with my wife. Groceries for two days at the lake. Twenty gallons of gas for wave runners I probably won’t ride. Windows down and moon roof open all the way back, but I still think we got buzzed from the fumes.
Good, old friends stopped over. We sat around the fire pit. They drank beer and vodka seltzers. I sipped three glasses of non-alcoholic IPA. We watched boats and pontoons. A few crazies out in the middle of it all in kayaks and tubes strung together with ropes, blasting music, laughing and splashing, shiny cans twinkling in the afternoon sun. This got us going—reveling in the debauchery, foolishness, and fun of thirty years of friendship.
For me, the party has ended. For them, not so much.
They talked about spending every evening on Venus Lake, casual drinks, getting sun, hanging out with friends after work.
They talked of a party the night before. A DJ. A throng of people. Thirty-year old scotch. Sleeping in tents.
And then, their plans for the rest of the day—a stop at Bayside Bar, then into town for drinks at the Blue Collar Tavern. Rounding out an early night, nine or ten at the latest, after all, we are all circling 50—with a visit to Billy Goat’s Pub.
My wife was in the hammock a few feet away. Listening. Wondering. I never know what she’s thinking. But I hope by now, she reads my mind.
I was thinking of power washing the cottage. Painting the garage door. Caulking cracks and crevices. Flushing the water heater. Testing the furnace. Putting away all the summer toys. Getting the dock out. And planting a few trees—a dappled willow, a poplar, a white birch.
My friends left to do their work. Roared away in a black ’69 Z28. I grabbed a Sprite. Stood in the driveway and stared at my SUV.
In the garage, I talked at Dear Abby—my pet chipmunk. She listened. Stuffed her cheeks with sunflower seeds as I cleaned the grill grates then slathered them with olive oil. When she was full and tired of me, she scurried away under the wood pile. I charred and mutilated two pounds of salmon and dried out a batch of asparagus. A sad match for my wife’s made-with-love-simply-summer-egg-salad-delight.
But we all sat together. Ate. And the taste was there. We talked about our family, our pets, our plans.
The Midland car show.
A campus visit—NMU in Marquette.
And maybe an off-season purchase—a new boat for next year.
But most important, our after-dinner ride.
Around the lake. To Minnie’s Ice Cream Shack. For dessert. For their end-of-summer sale.
One scoop of vanilla in a cup for my daughter. A Girl Scout sugar cone for my wife. And three scoops of Mocha Rush—in a waffle cone—for me.
Enough sugar and caffeine to lift and keep me up—by firelight, under silent stars, with them.
~ K.J.
Leave a Reply