The Cure Cottage

I have come to value sleep over most things and, above all other pleasures, I long for slow and quiet mornings. With Quinn, each day begins quickly, her demands easily out pacing my capacity to move or think, her frustration voiced clearly in wordless whining—excruciating to the ear and vexatious to the early morning soul. And days started in this way, after many other similar days, leave me edgy to the irritants, quick to react and slow to recover.

For two months I've had planned a brief getaway with Char to her camp, to visit with her and also just to sleep, to follow my own course through a day or two. Sam will have his weekend next; it too is already planned. 

Tucked in the trees, on a hill above the shore of Saranac Lake, Char's camp is a haven of solitude and simplicity. Heated with wood, no running water, an incinerating toilet—it is roughing it, to a certain extent, but with the luxury of electricity, which means an electric blanket to sit under while the cabin heats up, and hot tea which comes quickly when it's needed. Chairs are situated by windows for a variety of views, all of them leading to the lake through the trees. It is a beautiful place, intentional in every detail.

In November, we went over for a day to cover the deck furniture, hang the insulated curtains for winter, stack the wood. That trip was an over-and-back, and on that trip I dreamed of staying and enjoying a rest. This weekend, as we re-folded tarps and put them away, brought wood in to burn, watched the ice melt before our eyes in summer-like heat, it seemed no time had passed at all. In November we jumped into the lake off the dock—one last swim before winter, one wild gesture to welcome our milestone birthdays—we were numb enough climbing out to not feel cold. This time, we settled for lounging in the sun on a dock…not hers, but one as yet unclaimed in this too-early spring, and one with a better blast of heat at midday.

Friday night, I was asleep by 9pm. I laid down by the woodstove to stretch out; I vaguely remember her talking from where she worked on her jigsaw puzzle, but never heard her wash the dishes, or close up for the night and go upstairs. In the morning I woke at the regular intervals that I am accustomed to at home—2 am in restlessness, 4 am waiting, 5 am to Quinn's cries before she gets carried to our bed, 6 am when she finally starts to climb around, testing her legs, poking her sleeping parents in the eye or the nose. At camp, without her, I woke up but didn't move, waited for sleep to settle on me again, stayed in bed until nine o'clock. It was 11:30 before we even set foot outside, and then only to take a walk and find a good place to lie down in the sun. We did that until 3:30 in the afternoon, walked back and made cocktails for the dock…just like a lazy, carefree summer day...with the exception of the still-frozen lake.

Char called it The Cure Cottage, a reference to Saranac's history as a destination for tuberculosis patients in the late 1800s and early part of the twentieth century…fresh air and bed rest to cure what ails you. By the time we packed up and headed back east on Sunday, across Lake Champlain and into our own Green Mountains, I was so relaxed I felt heavy. I hadn't slept particularly well, or even enjoyed that much quiet, with all the talking we had to do to plan our summer canoe trip, but I was rejuvenated by the absence of responsibility for two days, and the laughter and loving company of my dear friend.

In the two days since, the chaos has resumed. Short tempers still flare, school schedules still change, dish crews and papers must still be dealt with.

Today has been a fever day for Quinn. Home from school early, my job all afternoon was to hold her. She refused, koala-like, to be put down. In one coughing fit, she threw up her lunch all over me. I carried her to the tub and stripped us both out of the slime before taking her to my bed for a continuation of her afternoon nap.

She was disoriented and hot, in and out of sleep on the bed next to me, tossing and wrestling pillows and blankets until she found her way to the cradle provided by my extended legs. She rolled into the crease between them, her head toward my feet. Legs bent up underneath her, her feet flat against my stomach, I was amazed to realize that her torso alone stretches down to my shins, the rise of my kneecaps fitting just under her arms. She is long and kid-like already.

Asleep on my legs, with her hands behind her head, she held her pink lamb pressed against a closed eye. In her right hand, the corner of her velvety, pale pink blanket, paler still against her fever-flushed cheek. She slept fitfully, half-waking now and then to whimper or moan. In one cycle to the surface, she sat upright on my lap, her eyes looking at my face without seeing, until eventually I came into focus and she leaned down, pressed her nose to my nose and then flopped face down onto my chest, falling quickly back to sleep. The next time around, she smiled, stroked my jaw gently with her cupped open palm, touched my nose with her pointer finger, and then her own, as if to say: this is a nose, and we both have one. Tawny ringlets stood off her head in all directions. She flopped back down, back to sleep, four limp limbs hanging by my sides.

Eventually she was awake for another dose of medicine, some warm milk with syrup, and Sam's arrival home. She climbed from my arms to his, waved to me sweetly, "bye bye," she said, indicating that she was ready to be put to bed. After only half an hour awake, she went to her crib without complaint.

I type now in the dark on my front porch, sitting in Corey's rocking chair, salvaged from Irene's mud, a hot cup of tea within arm's reach. Dowsville Brook is a steady rush of water not far away. There are no bugs. There are many stars. Moses lies at my feet on the porch, earning his forgiveness for the morning's adventures. Boone is on the muddy ground beneath, the new and irresistible earth. It is 65 degrees tonight in these woods. Snow remains only in tree wells, otherwise black garden soil beckons, green tips of tulips and daffodils, tight red curls of rhubarb, all making their way to the sun. It is too early, by a month or more, but like many things you aren't supposed to have, the temptation of it proves too much and I savor this warm and early spring. My own cure cottage. Happy to be within earshot of my sick and sleeping babe.