Rambling along on a Sunday afternoon

This afternoon, hubby and I loaded the two littlest kids into their car seats for a long ride up and around the Great Sacandaga Lake, a beautiful, 29-mile reservoir in the foothills of the Adirondacks.

The day was gorgeous. The sun glinted off the water as sailboats took full advantage of the day's breezes and speedboats made waves for young swimmers by the shore.

The camps surrounding the lakes vary in size and splendor, from rundown, unheated shacks to gorgeous just-shy-of-mansion-status year-round homes. Property around Sacandaga isn't cheap...$300,000 is common for a typical camp with lake access...but it's still affordable according to other lake standards. You can't touch a property near Lake George (the crown jewel of the Adirondacks) for much under a cool million, so Sacandaga is the next best thing.

Hubby has his heart set on buying a camp on Sacandaga... a fixer-upper that, while still expensive, would be both a wonderful retreat and a tremendous investment. We can't afford it now, but if his business takes off as it's promising to do, then buying a camp--a handyman's special, that is--becomes more of a possibility.

It would be nice.

I can easily imagine myself sitting in an Adirondack chair on the deck of our camp, watching hubby fish from the dock as the kids play jailbreak in the yard. I'd have either a notepad or Trixie (my Dell) on my lap, a beverage at my right, and gobs of deet all over my body to repel the mosquitos and black flies. :-) The mountain lake breezes would ruffle my papers and soothe my soul, freeing up my mind to focus on the words I need to put on the page.

Or this...

It's early morning. Hubby and kids are still asleep. I walk onto the deck with my steaming ritual of strong, black coffee. The morning mist lends a surreal touch to the lake and leaves dewy kisses on my hair, face and hands. I huddle in my wooly sweater, savoring the hot, bitter potion as it works its magic from my lips to my limbs to my brain. The daybreak chatter of boreal chickadees and yellow-bellied flycatchers, underscored by the haunting call of the loons, creates a background noise that calms, not irritates, my spirit. I am at one with nature, with life. My mind's door opens to the multitude of ideas that blow at me in the breeze, and I write them down in my notebook as fast as I can before they burn like the mist in the strengthening sun.

Yes, a camp on a lake would be a nice thing indeed. Perhaps I can contribute to its funding with proceeds from my writing.

Now wouldn't that be quite the reward?