Exceptional Remembering Gordon No more to the lake. by Mary Vigasin

This was one of my early stories. I made some corrections to an earlier version. I am rewriting it because it is the only story I have of my sister Rose's husband, Gordon, who passed away two days ago after two years with a debilitating illness. I have no stories of or about him. While I did not see him often, I do not think he spoke more than a sentence or two to me. The reason is that Gordon was a stern and quiet man. He was married to my sister for 22 years, and it had to be like living in a tornado as she can be very demanding, vocal, and overwhelming. However, I do not doubt that the marriage worked for this quiet man and the tornado. For the past two years, she has been his nurse and caretaker. To me, roughing it means a hotel room without cable. Admittedly, I dream that I will one day win the lottery (even though my playing is minimal) or that Publisher's Clearing House will come to a knocking at my door. (I have not registered.) With such riches, I can live the life I was meant to have (at least in my dreams.) So, when my sister and her husband Gordon invited me and my husband Harvey to their cabin on the lake, I jumped at the chance, particularly when she told me we would take a boat to an island. The location was in the far reaches of Maine; we took an active logging road. My teeth rattled, my body bouncing up and down as we drove on an unpaved, deeply rutted road behind the logging trucks. I envision a large boat, probably a 34-footer, and I beamed with delight at the thought of spending the weekend riding around the lake. We parked the car and walked through some tall weeds, I thought it unusual that a marina would be in such a desolate area, but I was anxious to get on the boat. The weeds cleared to an exceedingly small dock. It took me a moment to take in what I was seeing. What I had expected vanished at the sight of a tiny outboard motorboat. There was only room for the four of us in the boat, and the lightness of the skiff made it feel unstable to get in. At least I had the cabin on the island to look forward to. The "cabin" was the only building on a desolate and exceedingly small island. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away on the other side of the lake. I do not know if I would call it a 'cabin.' Calling it a shack would be more fitting. It was small, with one bedroom and a mattress in a loft above the bedroom. The cabin, the boat, the island, the stifling heat, and humidity all shot down my fantasy of an ideal luxury weekend. Once Gordon showed us where the outhouse was. I swore not to eat or drink for the rest of the weekend. For most of the weekend, a foggy haze obstructed most of the lake view. I kept my trigger finger on the button of bug spray to keep away the hordes of attacking mosquitoes and the giant hornets' nest that hung on the side of the cabin. There was no TV; the only radio was a hand crank job that would give us sound for an hour before you had to hand crank again. So, I pulled out the book I had brought to read. Suddenly, the lights went out. My sister, carrying a flashlight, led us towards our bedroom and said goodnight. My husband asked me: "It was only nine o'clock; why are we in bed? " "Because Gordon shut the generator off." Gordon would only run the generator for three hours each day and then shut it off. It was pitch black with no streetlights, moonlight, or neighboring buildings. I could not see my hand in front of my face. After lying there for what seemed like hours, I asked my Harvey: "What time is it now." He turned on the flashlight to look at his watch. "It is only 9:30." I turned on the flashlight several times during the night to look at his watch as the hours ticked by. With no breeze or fan to cool us, the humidity in the room was stifling. I love my fluffy bedroom pillows, and I had my head resting on a hard-flat pillow, which I swear was made of wood. I did not sleep more than an hour that night. Harvey and Gordon took off on the boat for a ride around the lake. I refused to go in the wobbly boat again till it was time to go home. So, I just sat outside, fanning myself with a newspaper and holding onto my bug spray. Sitting in this steamy wilderness, I was anxious to return to civilization with my A/C, TV, and fluffy pillows. On their return, Harvey pointed out an eagle on a dead tree limb in the distance. "No, it is not an eagle." I commented. It had to be a vulture, just hoped I would stay just one more day. By then, I would be just ripe enough for him." Recognized Author Notes Noted, I did not see them often because they wintered in Florida and spent the summers in Maine. I wish I could say this weekend was not real, unfortunately it was.

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