Grandpa and Grandma's Cottage Porch
From the living room, I swing the pine door open and step onto the long, narrow, wooden front porch. The porch is screened in and runs the length of the white cottage, overlooking the large lake. I take a deep breath of fresh, tangy lake air and hesitate a minute before deciding where I will sit. I turn my head to the left where the space stretches like a giraffe's neck. Standing next to me, up against the snowy clapboards and facing the rippling water, is a sofa-like glider. It is covered with parrot green and white stripped vinyl.
My eyes travel farther down, across the painted, shiny, gray floor boards to another glider, pushed against the end of the porch, facing me. This glider is a two-seater and sits higher off the floor. It is park-bench green with spider, inspired iron legs. The cushions are thin and worn but still comfortable.
To my right is a smaller, rectangular spot. In this area rests an old, wooden rocking chair. The soft cushion, upholstered in a heavy woven material, is scooped out in the center like ice cream in a carton.
A skip away, my eyes light on the avocado, green swing, which is suspended in the corner from silvery chains, fastened in the ceiling. It is to this seat that my feet take me.
I sink down on the puffy cushions that cover the bottom and back of the slated swing. I set the swing in motion by gently pushing off the half wall in front of me. The summer breeze is warm and envelops me like a blanket, and I revel in the calm, quiet, contentment that seeps through me.
The view through the screen is of the sun setting in the west, a glowing, fiery orange ball, throwing a path of bright light across the darker water. The lake looks like a treasure trove as the tiny wavelets peak and sparkle, diamond bright, soon to ebb then sparkle again.
Out by the rocks where the land meets the water, I can hear the soft rustle of the silvery leaves in the stately, old poplar tree. I watch the leaves twist and turn in the gentle lake breeze and think they look like the silver spoon on the end of my fishing line when I reel it through the water.
A small motor boat skims by, the bow slapping up and down, and the drone of the engine becomes slightly louder as it slices a wave.
I look across the lake. The light is fading, and along the horizon, the sky is becoming a dark, grayish blue. Winking lights appear here and there, lights from cottages on the far side of the lake and an occasional houseboat making its way to the mouth of the river.
In the gathering darkness, I hear the crickets softly take up their nightly serenade amongst the grasses by the porch while the last vestige of light illuminates our proudly waving flag which is hanging from the flagpole, wedged into the rocks along the shore.
I rise from my swaying seat thinking...I must take Old Glory down.
In honor and memory of my grandparents: Donald W. and Ruth A. Christensen. Thank you Grandpa and Grandma.