One Wonderful Week at the Lake

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It has been an unusually lively stretch here in Okoboji.

The children arrived. The number of dogs in residence multiplied considerably. Theater tickets were used, boats were boarded, dinners were enjoyed, fireworks filled the sky, and a surprising amount of laughter could be heard throughout the house.

This author also discovered that having grown children home involves far less supervision than it once did, considerably more independence, and the occasional realization that everyone else has already begun the day while she is still drinking her coffee.

But enough from Lady Whistledown.

It’s just me, finally sitting down with the pictures and trying to capture what a wonderful week we had.

Between all of us, there were people coming and going, dogs settling into every available corner, plans on the calendar, and the unmistakable feeling that summer was fully underway.

I had spent a great deal of time getting ready for everyone. That is what I do.

I think ahead. I make lists. I prepare the house. I try to anticipate what everyone might need before they even know they need it.

Before a visit, I can easily convince myself that every detail matters.

And then everyone arrives, the house comes alive, and I remember that the details are not really the point. The people are. Listening to the kids catchup on the patio, share memories, plan the next days activities and laugh... that is priceless. You can't see all the dogs but Maple is watching me capture this moment as my heart sings with joy and the dogs. That sitting, watching, listening.. it is a beautiful thing!

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What surprised me most was how peaceful the week felt.

Looking back at everything we did, it sounds like a very full schedule. We had theater, dinners, boat rides, time with family, music, fireworks, and days that moved quickly from one thing to the next. But it did not feel frantic.

One of the most meaningful parts of the week was celebrating my Dad's 88th birthday and David's 34th birthday. Having David and Avalon there with my mom and Dad made it feel especially significant. There was something so special about looking around and realizing how much life, history and love were gathered in one place.

David and my Dad are 54 years apart + a week and yet connected by so many shared memories, family stories and so much love. I have some beautiful photographs from that day, my parents together, David and Avalon with them and the kind of candid moments that say more than words ever cook. Those are the pictures I know I will treasure.

David and Avalon were often up, out, and beginning their own day before I was. Everyone had the freedom to move at their own pace. No one needed to be entertained every minute, and I did not have to orchestrate the entire week.

There was a lovely rhythm to it. People came and went. Plans unfolded. We gathered for the things we wanted to do together, and there was still room for everyone to have a little independence.

That may be one of the most enjoyable parts of having grown children home.

They are not waiting for you to plan their day.

They have their own routines, preferences, interests, and lives. They can head out on their own, make their own plans, or simply decide what sounds good that morning.

We filled the week with some of my favorite parts of an Okoboji summer.

We went to the theater. We listened to music. We had dinners out, sat together, talked, laughed, and enjoyed not having to hurry away.

Summer in Okoboji has its own rhythm, and so much of it seems to lead toward the water.

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We rode the Queen. We spent time on the pontoon. We took the Freedom Cruise. We watched the shoreline pass by, felt the breeze, listened to music, and enjoyed those long summer evenings that somehow make ordinary life feel far away.

There is something about being on the lake that changes the pace of a day. Boats pass. People wave. Music carries across the lake, and for a little while, someone laughing so hard that everyone else began laughing too. The kids dancing.

When you are younger, it is easy to assume there will always be another birthday, another summer, another dinner, and another opportunity to take the picture you forgot to take.

Family history is not only something that happened long ago. It is still being created.

It is created when people sit around a table. When old stories are told again.

When someone laughs at something they have probably heard before.

When a picture is taken that may become more meaningful with every passing year.

I am more aware now of the privilege of having those generations together in one place.

Not because every moment is profound. Most of them are not.

They are ordinary conversations, teasing, eating, talking, and deciding where everyone should stand for a picture.

But perhaps that is what makes them so precious.

Life does not usually announce which ordinary moment we will someday wish we could revisit.

Having my grown children home also reminded me that motherhood changes, but it does not disappear. I am no longer packing lunches, managing bedtimes, or deciding where everyone needs to be.

They do not need me in the same ways they once did. That can feel strange if I stop to think about it too long. But there is something beautiful about the new version too. Now I get to know them as adults. I get to hear their thoughts, watch the choices they make, see the lives they are building, and spend time with the people they have become. I get to enjoy them.

Of course, I still wonder whether everyone is comfortable. I still think about whether we have everything we need. I still want the house to feel welcoming and everyone to feel considered. That is part of how I love people.

But I am learning that loving grown children also means giving everyone room.

Room to make their own plans.

Room to have their own pace.

Room to come and go.

Room to be fully themselves.

The visit was better because it did not depend on everyone being together every second. We had shared adventures and shared meals, but we also had easy stretches of time when no one needed anything from anyone else.

That made the moments when we gathered feel even more natural.

The week moved toward the Fourth of July, and the fireworks felt like the perfect culmination.

There is something magical about watching fireworks over the water. The anticipation. The boats gathered together. The glow along the shoreline. The first burst of light against the dark sky. For a few minutes, everyone looks up. Whatever else has been happening falls quiet. You are simply present for something beautiful.

Fireworks are spectacular, but they are also fleeting. They appear, fill the sky, and disappear almost as quickly as they came. Perhaps that is part of why they felt so fitting.

Family visits can be like that too. You anticipate them for weeks. You plan and prepare.

Then suddenly everyone is there, the house is full, the calendar is full, and the days seem almost endless.

Until they are not.

Then the cars are packed. The dogs leave. The extra shoes disappear from the doorway.

The house settles back into its ordinary rhythm.

And you find yourself wondering how something you planned for so long could have passed so quickly.

After everyone left, the quiet was noticeable. I love my home. I love my routines, my peaceful mornings, and the life I have created here.

But a house sounds different after it has recently been full.

For a day or two, you almost expect someone to come through the door. You notice the places where the dogs had been lying.

You begin washing, putting things away, and returning the rooms to normal.

And yet, the house does not feel empty.

It feels like a place that has recently held a great deal of life. There is a warmth that remains after the people leave. The pictures remain. The stories remain. The laughter remains.

The memory of looking around and knowing that the people I love were all nearby remains.

When I look back at the week, I do not think its richness came from any one event.

It was the accumulation of everything.

It was waking up and knowing the kids were nearby. It was hearing laughter from another room. It was watching everyone settle naturally into the week. It was seeing my parents with their grandchildren.

It was talking, teasing, riding in the car, sitting by the water, and sharing the kind of moments that feel ordinary while they are happening.

I am learning that a rich life is not built from one extraordinary moment.

It is built from all of them. The planned moments and the spontaneous ones. The beautiful outings and the quiet stretches in between. The celebrations and the conversations.

The pictures we remember to take and the moments that exist only in our memories.

I often remind myself to plan thoroughly and live lightly. Planning thoroughly comes naturally to me. Living lightly is the part I am still learning. This week gave me a little of both.

There were plans on the calendar, tickets in hand, and plenty to look forward to. But there was also an ease to the days. A freedom to let people move at their own pace. A peacefulness in knowing that we did not need to make every moment special. Being together had already done that.

The house is quiet again.

The children have returned to their own homes and their own lives. The dogs have gone with them. Summer continues, as it always does, moving much faster than I would like.

But the house does not feel empty.

It feels grateful.

It feels like a place that has held laughter, family, conversation, music, dogs, late evenings, peaceful mornings, and more than a few wonderful memories.

For one beautiful stretch of summer, the people I love came home.

They filled the rooms.

They filled the days.

And long after the cars pulled away, they left the house—and me—feeling wonderfully full.