Duluth was the place of summer adventures and vacations with the family, water bottles scattered in the backseat and road trip snacks stuffed in the corners of the van and suitcases spilling from the trunk. We crammed books newly borrowed from the library and pads of paper with markers in shades rivaling the rainbow into our backpacks and stuffed batteries into the Nintendo gameboy we had (remember those things?) for the car trip.
My childhood is stitched with summers threaded with the sound of the water breaking on the rocks, deliciously cold, at Lake Superior. There are strands of symphonies from waking up to the hum of the waves, seeing the gold light hitting the room from the sun, smelling coffee beans roasting in the teeny kitchen of a cabin. Traipsing around on tiptoes in the rocks of Gooseberry. Stuffing ourselves with more homemade pie at Betty's Pies than is socially acceptable, and still not caring.Days spent at Grand Marais, perusing teeny shops, eating chocolates from the trade store, rifling through books and paperbacks like it was our job. There was such a blessed peace, a wonderful calm to our trip. It was like taking deep breaths of autumn air, crisp and tantalizing with the newness.
This summer, my grandparents and aunt took my brother, Caleb, and I to Duluth for three days, and I got to experience the newness again in his eyes. I watched his wonder as we walked to the lighthouse, as he peered at the water roiling dark far down below. I saw the way his smiles crystallized and shattered into laughter as he splashed in the cold water, I watched him squeeze into a booth at Grandma's Restaurant and order whatever he'd like (for the record, three of his meals were hotdogs with root beer -- his choice). I got to be his little mom for the trip, and made sure his shoes were tied, that he had a sweatshirt, that he ate his breakfast and said thank you and please. But more importantly, I was able to experience and celebrate the beauty that is Duluth and family trips and the excitement of being away with him.
My life is a tapestry and there is a whole row of summers from Duluth. But there is a new scene, one sewn with early mornings and the sound of Grand Marais and laughter from stories we'll tell again and again . It is threaded with the cold stones from Superior and the blueness of the sky, pulled tight and taught against the whips of wind and waves. And most importantly, it is stitched with a freckly faced copper top boy and his sister.
My childhood is stitched with summers threaded with the sound of the water breaking on the rocks, deliciously cold, at Lake Superior. There are strands of symphonies from waking up to the hum of the waves, seeing the gold light hitting the room from the sun, smelling coffee beans roasting in the teeny kitchen of a cabin. Traipsing around on tiptoes in the rocks of Gooseberry. Stuffing ourselves with more homemade pie at Betty's Pies than is socially acceptable, and still not caring.Days spent at Grand Marais, perusing teeny shops, eating chocolates from the trade store, rifling through books and paperbacks like it was our job. There was such a blessed peace, a wonderful calm to our trip. It was like taking deep breaths of autumn air, crisp and tantalizing with the newness.
This summer, my grandparents and aunt took my brother, Caleb, and I to Duluth for three days, and I got to experience the newness again in his eyes. I watched his wonder as we walked to the lighthouse, as he peered at the water roiling dark far down below. I saw the way his smiles crystallized and shattered into laughter as he splashed in the cold water, I watched him squeeze into a booth at Grandma's Restaurant and order whatever he'd like (for the record, three of his meals were hotdogs with root beer -- his choice). I got to be his little mom for the trip, and made sure his shoes were tied, that he had a sweatshirt, that he ate his breakfast and said thank you and please. But more importantly, I was able to experience and celebrate the beauty that is Duluth and family trips and the excitement of being away with him.
My life is a tapestry and there is a whole row of summers from Duluth. But there is a new scene, one sewn with early mornings and the sound of Grand Marais and laughter from stories we'll tell again and again . It is threaded with the cold stones from Superior and the blueness of the sky, pulled tight and taught against the whips of wind and waves. And most importantly, it is stitched with a freckly faced copper top boy and his sister.
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