In April or May 1997, George wrote about the winds creaking through the pines near Lake Eliza; writing so vivid that I heard and felt the day. This dreary Rocky Mountain spring morning sends my memory spinning back to the Copper Country. Those of us who lived there year around looked forward to that first May visit to the cottage.
It was usually a Sunday afternoon. After the stuffed old green picnic basket and Mr. Boots were loaded, the 1/2 hour drive fidgets set in. "I spy" around the final cut off curve woke any remaining woodland hibernators. Mom, in her infinite wisdom, remained seated until all the pent up energy exploded out of the station wagon. Boots never waited for a lowered tailgate. And, our grandparents only transported passengers on the way home!
Mr. Arnson, Dad and Grandpa had already completed their quiet week day salute-to-spring ritual: restoring water, repairing this and that, enjoying the serenity of the awakening hamlet.
We exploders whirled through cottage and cabins, down to the beach, over the rocks, up to Lake Eliza, chattering and bringing changes to each others' attention. With calmed assurance that all was as it should be, we returned to opening cabin chores.
Sometimes during the drive home, we stopped near Cat Harbor to pick spring cowslips. While Grandpa drove, we sang his favorite old songs. Sleep came easily that night. Spring had arrived. The snow banks were shrinking. School would end and summer begin.
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