Do Overs

I woke with a dog breathing in my face, a sure sign I was still alive and that she needed to go outside. Our intelligent dog knows that barking will not work with my hearing aids in the charger. For some unknown reason, I had left my slippers in the kitchen—more than likely an evening foraging. Slippers are footwear that kids and old people wear. I am content being a
member of the latter, and so are my feet. I slipped my pants on. I can still do it standing up, even though I have felt my balance waver over the last few years. Amazing the little things that boost my self-esteem.

But a loss of self-esteem: I have numerous pairs of glasses, and they all seem to play hide and seek with me in the morning. Turning on the light is always an option, as is poking a rattlesnake. Another boost for my self-esteem is knowing the consequences of such a foolish action. I begin my shuffling to the front door. I can see the dog’s silhouette in the doorway and feel her anxiousness. My right foot moves quickly toward the door alongside my left foot. The large toe, you would think, would be the smarter toe, but size has nothing to do with intelligence. When my left big toe met the bottom corner of the bedroom door, it was like a head-on collision with a 12-pound hammer. My volume, tone, and language found no appreciation from my slumbering spouse; my dog may never recover.

With the shock of the early morning stubbing subsiding and no toe concussion protocol, I was immediately transported back to my youth and to the toe-stubbing capital of the world.

Little Silver Lake in Waushara County, Wisconsin, is a small, spring-fed, no-wake lake where no motor boats are allowed. It had seasonal cottages around the lake between towering white pines at that time. Growing up, the fresh, uplifting smell of entering the resort for me was part of the
whole Silver Lake experience. My brother taught me there how to pump on the best wooden teeter-tooters, and my father would push me on the big, chain-linked swings, running all the way under and lifting me as high as he could. Swings with metal horse heads, the best sand beach in the area. Every cottage had a name on a wooden plaque, such as Rose Haven, Pine Lodge, Shady Nook and many more. Metal row boats were parked on the shore in front of each cottage, the creaking of the green wooden oars in their locks setting the sweet rhythm of a hot summer’s day.
Fieldstone-lined fire pits between the cottages and lake begged for songs and stories.

The magnificent mature white pines had vast root systems that bulged through the shallow sandy soil around the lake and made barefoot journeys from the quaint cottages to all the wonders of the resort into a perfect storm of toe stubbings. It was the Disney World of toe-stubbing, and only the resort’s winding road between the cottages made safe passage possible

My cousins, the Kingstons, summered at Little Silver every year. They were like mountain sherpas with their ability to maneuver through the resort and the treacherous, toe-eating root systems. My Aunt Laura would leave a bucket of water by the door, so before you entered the cottage, you could step in and wash the sand from your feet (and for the root rookies, the blood from their big toes). I was rewarded for a safe walk to the Algonquin, an arcade/soda fountain, with the discovery of rock and roll, and to The Fox, my first glass of beer.

My cousin Barb would guide me yearly through the root systems on our Sunday jaunts, then always back to the cottage where I would see a different part of my parents. Despite the white pine roots and damaged big toes, they would let go, let their hair down, and embrace the
overwhelming love from the Kingston family. Singing, storytelling, food, libation—more than anything, here the world was left out, and there was only family, friends and happiness.

Little Silver Lake was, and I’m sure still is, a magical place. So many beautiful memories that can be triggered “by a dark morning and an errant big toe.”