S'more Lore

I can’t imagine what it takes to maintain a vacation home. Lots of folks I know spend time at their shore houses. I think about the cost and upkeep on a second residence. How do people manage it? A summer cottage in the Berkshires, Hamptons, Vermont, the Adirondacks, those are only for the rich, right?

Dan and I are diligent in our financial planning. We don’t ever again want to be in the cranberry crash position of scrambling, working two jobs, wondering, can we feed our babies next week? We are frugal to the point of running disposables through the dishwasher, doubling up on mortgage payments, saving, saving, saving for that rainy day farm families know will come again. When our kids are middle school age, we actually manage to pay off our mortgage, and I save enough for the next best thing to a vacation home. . . an inground pool. (Cue the angels singing.) I make it to the point of sitting down with a pool company and starting a plan.

Summer comes and the kids and I spend a week away from home at Camp Manatawny. Dan works while we’re gone and reads a book about places to see before you die. He decides to research one within driving distance. When he picks me up from camp, I’m told to pack for a trip to Lake Placid, just the two of us, the first vacation we will take sans children.

We arrive at the Lake Placid Lodge and explore. This place is spectacular. Every detail of Adirondack style is more distinctive than the last. Views of the lake from every window, stone fireplaces, hand carved furniture, towering timber-frame ceilings, all combine into rustic luxury that suits Dan to a T. I love having my tea on an Adirondack chair by the lake, feeding the mallards my crusts, and joining the evening campfire to make s’mores with the other guests.

We explore the area of the High Peaks and poke around in town, bicycle, hike, and canoe. The manager of the hotel takes us for a lake tour in a classic wooden boat with his first mate, a beautiful golden retriever named Maggie who I see padding around the resort unencumbered by leashes. About three times a day Dan says, “I just feel like this is the place that I fit.” I can see it. It is totally his vibe. Wherever we go he picks up free real estate magazines and daydreams about owning a piece of the mountains himself. I dismiss it as just the thing he always does when we go away.

Six months after we get home, Dan’s still looking at real estate in the North Country. He shows me online listings and I play along; “Not that one; it’s not waterfront,” or “No, we need a screened-in porch.” Another time, “Where’s the fireplace?” or “No dock? No way!” He keeps seeing the same house come up. It’s been on the market for some time, and he asks me if I want to drive up and take a look. I know nothing will come of it, but what’s the harm in letting him have this daydream?

Our second trip to Lake Placid, we arrive in the depths of frigid February. The landscape is just as beautiful in the stark winter white as it was in the lushness of summer. Early on Sunday morning we meet Steve, the listing agent, and drive an hour north into true wilderness. I grip the door handle of Steve’s SUV as he flies down long ice-covered roads deeper and deeper into the forest. It is 18 degrees below zero as we step onto a snow-covered lawn and make our way toward the frozen lake. The red cedar shingled cottage is rustic as can be with exposed framing and open ceilings, walls only a little taller than Dan separating the bedrooms. But it checks off all the items I’ve been demanding: fireplace, screened porch, lakefront, dock. There’s just the matter of the price tag to deal with.

Back home, I believe Dan has satisfied his need to pursue this dream as far as it should go. Thinking he’s over it and it’s time to get back to pool planning, I’m surprised one spring weekend when he says, “We should take the kids up to Lake Placid and see if they like it.” The cottage is still on the market. I guess he’s not quite over it.

Steve meets us again, and we drive the hour north with our two teenagers. I wonder what they think of the pine forest that makes our New Jersey trees look like midgets. When we walk through the house, Emelyn breathes in dramatically, “I can smell the potential.” Brad and I try out the Adirondack chairs by the firepit, and I watch as Dan beckons the kids out to the dock.

Later, as our kids explore, Dan and I sit on the porch. “You know, we’re not vacation home people. But, you really want this, don’t you. I guess I’m not getting a pool.” I sigh and wait for him to tell me he’s enjoyed the search but it’s too impractical. He says nothing for a long time.

“I want our kids to see our hard work turn into something we dreamed of, you know? I want them to believe they’re capable of achieving something they never thought they could.”

I imagine the four of us roasting marshmallows and them hearing their father imparting such words, blessing them with a smidgen of his s’more lore after a day of fishing. My better judgement can’t argue with that image.

“Besides,” he concludes. “Why want a pool if you can have a whole lake to swim in.”

Your Turn: What s’more lore wisdom would you impart when around the campfire?