Remembering the Alamo
Glenn, MI
Like savoring the last few sips from a fine bottle of wine, we’ve spent the last couple days taking it slow, and appreciating what we have while we still have it.
I know anyone who reads these musings (assuming anyone still does) must tire of hearing me wax prosaic about this charming château-sur-lac…this bucolic bungalow on the bluff…this rustic cabin on the coast.
Well, relief is in sight. Shadows are long, supplies are dwindling, and time grows short. Outside, the trumpet is sounding, the cavalry approaches, and ladders are rising against the castle walls. After today, readers will be rescued. But this morning, we man the ramparts, fire one last salvo, and empty the chamber.
For the last couple years, this Alamo in Allegan County has been under siege. Actually, it’s been a bit more like Davy Crockett pleading with Santa Anna to take it, but only on Crockett’s terms.
A couple weeks ago, the fortress was finally captured. Fortunately, the mechanism was more peaceful than the original battle, and there were no casualties.
But the white flag is up, and terms have been negotiated. All that is left is for the surrender papers to be signed and for the current occupants, plus hangers-on like us, to abandon the fort.
But before we fold our colors and march away, a few recollections, like Valkyries to Valhalla, cross our mind.
For almost twenty years, our gracious hosts have allowed us to use this house as our summer retreat. Our sons knew no other. We could imagine none better.
Years ago, George told us he hoped Alexander and David would remember this place as their childhood vacation spot. George has his wish, because he and Molly so often granted ours.
Like autumn leaves across this familiar lawn, the memories have piled up. We’ve come here almost as long as Alexander has been alive. On our first visit, he was only 18 months old. That weekend, at the Fourth of July parade in South Haven, he had his first popsicle. The same week, he took some of his first steps on what was then an unscreened deck. Several years later, in the dining room at Hawkshead, he lost his first tooth. On this beach, David took his own tentative steps, and a few stumbles, on the soft sand.
Most of the memories are like these superficially insignificant moments, activities that are mundane in isolation. But in combination, like pieces of a mosaic, they form indelible images we’ll cherish forever.
Our routines were routine. Boat rides on the lake, riding zip lines in Allegan, playing golf at Hawkshead, picking blueberries at Earl’s, ordering pizza from the Glenn Store, eating ice cream at Hudsonville’s, walking to the lighthouse in South Haven, riding dunes and bouncing bungees in Saugatuck, where we’d been to the playground almost as much as we’ve been to any park in Atlanta.
But most of the appeal and pull was here, at the house. Tho’ on each trip we’d venture into town, it was always with reluctance. Any time spent there was time away from here. And every moment was precious.
I can still see my pre-teen sons playing baseball in the yard, with me as full-time pitcher. Or football on the beach, where I was full-time quarterback. Likewise in the lake, where the boys were often the ball, till they became too big for me to toss them into the waves. Most days, we’d make our obligatory pilgrimage to “the rock”, with me lifting…like Rafiki hoisting Simba…one or both sons in triumph before hurling them unceremoniously into the water.
On “warm” water days, Rita joined us in the lake. But she was also content watching from, or walking along, what was till recently a wide sandy beach. I was happy to join her. As she soaked up sun, I’d pour down beers and pour into a book, all the while nestled under a tiny umbrella that was a futile shield against the sneaky-severe sun. Beside us, like most kids, our sons would dig tunnels, run wild, or bury themselves in the sand, sometimes falling asleep under that warm granular blanket.
Often, while her husband and other two kids goofed-off on the beach, Rita would retreat to the house, descending the steps twenty minutes later bearing sandwiches, snacks, and drinks. By such sustenance, our heroine enabled us to spend entire afternoons of most summers wallowing by or in the water.
Not many Atlantans regularly travel 700 miles north to be at the beach. The Gulf Coast of Florida and the Atlantic coast of South Carolina are about half the distance, and accessible throughout the year.
Yet this was much more than simply a “beach”, even when it offered a wide expanse of soft sand. My wife always said it reminded her of home…her first home, Odessa in the Ukraine. Like a dacha on the Black Sea, it mingles an aquatic appeal with the rustic pleasures of a verdant, rural landscape. The agricultural abundance…particularly cherries and strawberries (with blueberries as stand-in for gooseberries)…only enhance the resemblance. As this place embellished our children’s’ childhood, it brought Rita back to hers.
The evenings sitting with her outside, on the deck, as the waves washed the shore, the breeze rustled the leaves, and the sun set in the distance, are some of the greatest moments of my life. As were our long walks on the empty beach, or the lazy mornings when we’d wake slowly, to the soothing sound of crashing waves.
Like the rising lake, other memories flood back, carrying recollections beyond our immediate family foursome. Many times, we were able to join George and Molly here. On others, my mother and Jerry. A few times, all of us gathered at once, straining the logistical capabilities of Michigan wine distributors. In recent years, Katy and Perry would help us add to their burden.
Even the menagerie of hummingbirds, hawks, eagles, gulls, rabbits, and deer had become morning companions and evening friends.
But beautiful and charming as it is, it is not merely this place I will miss. When we first arrived, we never expected we’d still be coming almost two decades later, and most years in between. The setting and scene were obviously addictive. But, like compound interest, each visit offered experiences that allowed us to repeat, amplify, and add to those we’d made before.
As we brought our kids from infancy, into childhood, and thru high school, this house was a central feature of this important part of our lives. As our sons enter and approach college, and as we progress thru middle age, that phase is ending. As George himself put it when he told us he was selling, it’s time to move on.
And of course, he’s right. Whether we like it or not, that moment always arrives. Actually, it’s been knocking for a while. I’ve just resisted opening the door. Life has already been pulling us other directions, and kept Rita and Alexander from joining us each of our last two times here. Today, it came for David and me, the last two hold-outs in the fort.
When I awoke this morning it was early, still dark. A luminous lunar carpet rolled serenely across the lake, a pre-dawn vestige of so many transcendent evening sunsets. Once more, I sat on the deck. The air was cold, but my coffee was hot, and it warmed me as I marveled at the soft light upon the still water.
As always, our last task before leaving was to wash the sheets, clean the towels, and replace them on their respective beds and racks. To leave the place cleaner than we found it.
This time, that was a bit more challenging. The house was cleaner than usual when we arrived. Most of the closets and shelves had already been cleared of clothes and clutter to improve showing and begin the process of moving out. In the coming days, the phone will be disconnected, the internet shut down, and the last light turned off.
As we packed our things, we took one last look around. We gathered our belongings, locked the doors, and walked outside. We went to the edge of the bluff, and took one last obligatory look over the lake. After a few minutes, we made our way to the car.
Getting in, I started the engine, set the mileage, and began to back up. Behind me, perched on a post at the end of the road, was a hawk, peering intently toward the house. I paused, and tried to show David. But before he could look, the bird had seen enough, and was ready to go. He turned his head, flapped his wings, and flew inland without looking back. A few seconds later, he was gone.
And so were we.
JD
