Norfork Lake - grace grits and gardening

In my family, we count down to our annual lake trip as though we are jetting off to Bora Bora.

Those not born into our family (i.e. husbands*) do not share in our delight. Oh, they are supportive of our lake love, and once every five years or so even accompany us, but they see little charm in the rustic cabins with fickle plumbing. Finding no thrill in worshipping the blazing sun, they prefer to stay inside and read until their talents are requested at the grill.They just aren’t big boat people, we say about these landlocked husbands, even as our crippled boat is being towed into the nearest dock. Our vintage boat with her smashed bow and tired motor is no beauty, but we love her anyway. Being towed by a sympathetic boater is all part of the adventure, we say. We don’t need no stinkin’ new boat, we say.

They humor us, these dry-land men, but try as they might, they don’t get it. And, how could they, really? Lake water doesn’t flow through their veins.

They weren’t around when we watched and watched for the first peep of the lake through the Ozark Mountains, then waited and waited in the long line to ride the magical ferry across. They missed the thrill of climbing the cliffs for the first time, the first time we JUMPED!

They never shot bottle rockets under a globe of stars. They weren’t lucky enough to taste Daddy’s melt-in-your-mouth ribs or hear Uncle Ted’s hilarious rendition of Blue Moon broadcast along the streets of Mountain Home. They weren’t part of the family when 80-year-old Aunt Virgie jumped in the lake and lost her wig.

They never fished in the foggy cove before sunrise or roasted marshmellows at midnight.

They weren’t there…