A schizophrenic crossroad on the way to our family cabin fascinates me each time we pass it — to the left, Happy Lane, to the right Old Dump Road. A divine sense of humor or retribution led to these two very different descriptions of the same street. The sign offers a perfect example of perspective.
Would you rather live on Happy Lane or Old Dump Road?
Saturday night a classic summer thunderstorm interrupted us during the important business of roasting the perfect marshmallow and gave us another example of perspective.
Fat rain drops pelted us as half of our group ran for the car, the other half sprinted to the cabin and a lone 20-year old remained in his chair, crouched determinedly over a dying fire.
“It’s the perfect marshmallow and it’s almost done,” he yelled over the woosh of the pounding rain.
Eventually, we landed safely on the cabin’s front porch, where we settled on the wood chairs and creaky swing. We watched lightning cut jagged swipes across the sky and counted the seconds until the thunderous boom!
The cabin’s overhang shielded us from the storm and the wide porch offered a magnificent, river front view.
I poked my head around the corner to take a quick shot of our soggy campfire, lonely chairs scattered around the smoky ash — a sad tableau that might have been the theme of this post.
But, as I returned to my seat on the sturdy swing my dad hung more than 30 years ago, squished between my daughter and son, I realized that the rain had not ruined our summer evening.
While I’ll always love quiet campfire evenings with their promise of sticky sweet fingers, mellow flames, and starry skies, I treasure the stormy nights too.
Saturday night our family enjoyed a front row seat in an exclusive amphitheatre, where quiet conversation provided the perfect backdrop to the beautiful fury of a summer storm.
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