Every summer I revive my fantasy of spending June, July and August (okay, it's my fantasy so I'll throw in September, too) living in a simple, comfortable cabin on a lake.
Cabin must have a sturdy dock going out into the lake. Big enough for a couple of lounge chairs on the end of it. (I'm taking that guy I live with along.) Hitches on either side of the dock for securing a canoe and kayak.
I'll need a small, inflatable raft for times I choose to be a big ol' sloth floating on the water. (Maybe with a long rope I can tie to that dock so I feel secure I won't drift off to parts unknown.) I'll also use the raft laid on the dock for a comfortable nap in the sun. Listening to the soft, hypnotic sound of waves lapping up on shore is one of the most restful sounds I can think of.
But what is the most important part of this fantasy? Books. Books and more books. I wouldn't even take any handwork with me. (Shock and awe.) I would read all. summer. long. As much as I wanted to. I would read in between leisurely paddles in the canoe or sipping liquid libation on the dock watching the moon come up. Before and after meals. Definitely in the evening hours before bed. In front of a fire to ward off the chill breeze blowing in off the lake on a rainy day. (Did I mention the cabin would have a small wood stove?) Ah, guilt-free reading dawn to dusk. And then some. Sigh.
There are so many good books I've yet to read. So little time to do it in my "normal" life. Would I get my fill of reading if I did it for a whole summer? I don't know. But I sure do fantasize about living the dream.
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