I'm paging through a magazine when an ad catches my eye: "Go to your happy place" it reads — the words hovering over a luxury car.
"That's not my happy place," I say to my dog. She doesn't hear me. She doesn't hear much these days. But it doesn't matter. Because I've already been transported.
I'm in the living room of the family lake cabin. I'm lying across the couch — brown and slightly stiff in the way that decades-old furniture might still be stiff. It's not an overstuffed couch, but an angular piece with scratchy fabric and wooden arms.
I'm on my side, facing the room. Through the sliding glass door, I see the deck, beyond it an expanse of lawn, a couple of trees, the lake.
Perpendicular to the couch, just to my left, my grandma sits in her favorite chair. She's in a sleeveless golf shirt and pleated shorts. Her toenails are painted a pale, pearly mauve. She's facing slightly away from me, her legs draped over the arm of her chair. She's reading a paperback through glasses that have slid down her nose.
In front of the sliding door, my grandpa is settled into his blue leather recliner, feet up. He's wearing white tennis shoes. Light denim pants. Brown belt. Polo shirt. He's studying the crossword puzzle from the Grand Forks Herald in his left hand. Holds a pen in his right. Every once in a while, he reads a clue out loud. Not because he doesn't know the answer, but to test me.
This is not a "happy place" created by my imagination. It's not an amalgamation of fiction and fact. It's a moment in time. It's a memory, held now for 15 years.
Tell me to go to my happy place, and I'll always return to that afternoon.
I'd left for my grandparents' cabin late the night before to deliver an anniversary gift — a hand-drawn portrait I'd had commissioned based on a photograph. It was pretty good. My grandpa's likeness was extraordinary. There was something a little off with my grandma's, but we never could pinpoint it.
I don't arrive at the lake until about 6 the next morning, after sleeping a few hours in a gas station parking lot in Winger, which is another story altogether.
I show my grandparents the portrait. Join them for breakfast in a cafe in McIntosh — my grandpa freshly showered and smelling like Bay Rum aftershave, my grandma expertly lipsticked and wearing a sweater over her sleeveless top.
We spend the rest of the morning chatting around the cabin and yard, until afternoon when we settle into a drowsy contentedness.
I read. My grandma reads. My grandpa does his crossword. I watch them periodically, aware that my time with them is finite. That trips "up north" alone are infrequent. That this could be the last time the three of us are alone, together.
It's quiet, save for the sounds of life on the lake. An occasional ski boat vibrates by. A breeze rustles the tree leaves. Water laps at the beach. The sun reflects off the lake and makes patterns on the wall.
And all is right with the world.
"That's not my happy place," I say to my dog. She doesn't hear me. She doesn't hear much these days. But it doesn't matter. Because I've already been transported.
I'm in the living room of the family lake cabin. I'm lying across the couch — brown and slightly stiff in the way that decades-old furniture might still be stiff. It's not an overstuffed couch, but an angular piece with scratchy fabric and wooden arms.
I'm on my side, facing the room. Through the sliding glass door, I see the deck, beyond it an expanse of lawn, a couple of trees, the lake.
Perpendicular to the couch, just to my left, my grandma sits in her favorite chair. She's in a sleeveless golf shirt and pleated shorts. Her toenails are painted a pale, pearly mauve. She's facing slightly away from me, her legs draped over the arm of her chair. She's reading a paperback through glasses that have slid down her nose.
In front of the sliding door, my grandpa is settled into his blue leather recliner, feet up. He's wearing white tennis shoes. Light denim pants. Brown belt. Polo shirt. He's studying the crossword puzzle from the Grand Forks Herald in his left hand. Holds a pen in his right. Every once in a while, he reads a clue out loud. Not because he doesn't know the answer, but to test me.
This is not a "happy place" created by my imagination. It's not an amalgamation of fiction and fact. It's a moment in time. It's a memory, held now for 15 years.
Tell me to go to my happy place, and I'll always return to that afternoon.
I'd left for my grandparents' cabin late the night before to deliver an anniversary gift — a hand-drawn portrait I'd had commissioned based on a photograph. It was pretty good. My grandpa's likeness was extraordinary. There was something a little off with my grandma's, but we never could pinpoint it.
I don't arrive at the lake until about 6 the next morning, after sleeping a few hours in a gas station parking lot in Winger, which is another story altogether.
I show my grandparents the portrait. Join them for breakfast in a cafe in McIntosh — my grandpa freshly showered and smelling like Bay Rum aftershave, my grandma expertly lipsticked and wearing a sweater over her sleeveless top.
We spend the rest of the morning chatting around the cabin and yard, until afternoon when we settle into a drowsy contentedness.
I read. My grandma reads. My grandpa does his crossword. I watch them periodically, aware that my time with them is finite. That trips "up north" alone are infrequent. That this could be the last time the three of us are alone, together.
It's quiet, save for the sounds of life on the lake. An occasional ski boat vibrates by. A breeze rustles the tree leaves. Water laps at the beach. The sun reflects off the lake and makes patterns on the wall.
And all is right with the world.