A Siren's Song at Black Lake

"You know that your brother is going to buy enough to feed an army of fishermen," I grumbled as Brad and I wheeled his heavily-laden grocery cart through the store as he prepared for his annual trip to Black Lake. He hefted a case of thirty bottled waters into the cart before facing me, "No...I told him to just pick up some small snacks." I snorted but then just limited my opinion to eye rolls as a vat of salsa and half the beer in the store were added to our stash. The bottom of Brad's van practically scraped the driveway as he pulled out, tossing me a jaunty wave as he departed for the cabin.

Arriving from the airport a day later, Virgil and Jeff met me at a central location to pick up Sydney and Chlo so they could all travel up to the lake together. As usual, I heard them before I could actually see them. They spotted Sydney and it sounded like the store intercom had gone off, "Syd!" and she was off...racing down the aisle like she was twelve rather than twenty-one to throw herself into their arms. I approached more warily, eyeing the grocery cart that took two grown men to push. The way it looked, Sydney was going to have to help too. "Brad brought up plenty of water," I told them, "You can put your two cases back. I don't think you're going to drink one hundred bottles of water in a week." Naturally, they scoffed at me, citing the imminent dangers of dehydration. With the amount of beer they had...I wasn't worried about them wasting away none too soon. I tried again. "Brad bought salsa." Apparently, I am the funniest person Virgil and Jeff have EVER met because everyone knows that you can never have TOO much salsa. By checkout, we ended up with a bucket of Amish potato salad, enough yellow onions to last me a year, a bushel of heirloom tomatoes (because they travel so well), so much ice that we might have created a global shortage, and GIANT blocks of cheese that no one bothered to re-wrap and were coated in dog hair by the time we returned home. These guys do not shop small.



On Friday, I headed up with the Rottweiler. We arrived around dusk and I was faced with that age-old dilemma that has plagued mankind since the flood: Should I kick back and watch TV or make a show of waiting for my family? Juno voted for couch time but we leashed up and headed down to the dock. "How long could they possibly be," I told her and we settled in on some boulders. Boat after boat quietly slipped into our little harbor as the sky slowly drew its gray down comforter across the lake. "I'm like a sea captain's wife," I told Juno, swinging my bare feet over the boulder's edge, squinting across the water for any sign of our vessel. Another boat quietly approached the dock...its crew acknowledging me with a silent salute. "I'm a siren," I whispered to the now-shivering dog as the boulder began to sap the warmth from our bodies, "luring fisherman from the deep into the dangers of the rock-strewn shallows." The gray sky seeped to black and we were now robbed of our sight. I banged my bare feet against the rock in a vain attempt to restore some feeling to my now-numb toes. The dog and I clung together in this moment of hardship. "Chrisley Knows Best is on," I whispered between chattering teeth. "and I'm an electrician's wife with hypothermia."

As usual, we heard them before we saw them. The evoked mood rippling off the water was less "Deadliest Catch" and more upbeat country music video. Juno and I, now frozen boulder barnacles, watched as the boat bumper-car-ed its way into its assigned parking spot. A rod snapped as someone stepped on it. Arms windmilled, barely preventing someone's inevitable spill into the water. Inventory was addressed regarding the re-stocking of beverages for tomorrow's journey. Still...I remained invisible. Stomp...stomp...stomp. The parade crossed the pier. Like Rose, clinging to the door that clearly could have held both her and Jack if she hadn't been so incredibly selfish, I tried to call out for help. My voice croaked. My siren's song was gone. There wasn't a dead corpse nearby to rip a handy whistle from his frozen lips so I would have to muster my last remaining strength before the loud rescue party turned away from this sinking ship.

Sensing his beloved was near at hand, Brad Mosiman suddenly turned toward the shadowy recesses of the boulders. Like Hercules freeing Prometheus from his eternal punishment, Brad pried me from the rock-face. I received a (loud) hero's welcome and we returned to our cabin to regale one another with the day's adventures. In the end...Mosimans do not shop small, talk small, or love small. Which is why I am so grateful to be part of their family.