By Eric Kasten
An errant zephyr scented with notes of cedar and summer forest stirs my memory as the lake gently laps at the sandy beach. The cottage is as I remember it, painted white with a large screened-in porch perched on cement blocks facing the lake. Mullioned windows divide the light that reaches into the rooms within. An age ago, a sign by the road announced that this cottage was modern, promising that running water, electricity, and an inside bathroom were included with the rental. Today, with its peeling paint, listing porch, and roof carpeted with more mottled moss than shingle, it would be regarded as rustic and in disrepair. It is the last of five cottages to survive and the result of merging two cottages into a larger summer home. It is also pleasantly haunted, at least for me.
I pull open the screen door on the old leaning porch. The door resists my tug as the frame is a bit askew. I enter, cross the porch, and push open the lacquered pine-plank door leading into the cottage’s main room. The door squeals loudly in greeting, having not been visited by a drop of oil in some time. The interior of the cottage is lined with more lacquered knotty pine planks. The blonds and browns of the wood blend and make the space feel like a continuation of the neighboring forest.
I turn and look across the room into the kitchen. A window is centered in the wall above the sink, locked shut with an ancient brass latch that you turn to open. The kitchen counter is a little too low to be comfortable for an average-height cook. A very old, but still serviceable, refrigerator is to the left, and a cooktop to the right. A lady of middle age is carefully slicing up onions and green peppers on a small cutting board wedged between the sink and the cooktop. A pot on the stove begins to boil and she stops cutting vegetables to break the dry spaghetti in half before carefully adding it to the boiling water. She turns and pops the top off a quart mason jar of homegrown and canned tomatoes with a can opener. Her hair is a touch grey and more wavy than curly and cut to stay out of her eyes. She wipes her hands on her apron, smudging the farm scene depicted on the fabric with a bit of red tomato. She often sews her aprons choosing a bright scene or pattern to help lighten her day.
“Making stove-top spaghetti, Mum?” I ask quietly.
She continues cooking as if I’m not there and picks up the cutting board to slide the cut onions and peppers into a hot skillet with the knife. The vegetables sizzle and sputter as if angry about being dumped into the hot pan. The scent of cooking onions drifts across the room to where I stand watching. I’ve watched her cook many times over many years. I know that soon she will pour the tomatoes into the skillet with the onions and peppers, adding a pinch or two of salt and pepper to taste and maybe a little oregano or basil.
“I have to go, Mum.”
She turns and lowers her brow, glowering at me as only she can do, unhappy that I’m leaving, but smiles at me with understanding.
I leave, tugging the front door closed and ensuring the screen door is secured in its crooked frame. I head down the gravel drive and up the hill through the woods. As I approach a vast growth of lush green ferns thickly covering the woodland floor, my heart tugs to ask for a moment. Beneath those ferns lies the scattered ashes of my mum and dad, brought north to a place they loved. It was a last request from my dad that their ashes be scattered here. And so, my siblings and I had brought their ashes north to a hill overlooking the lake to lie quietly together, caressed by the breath of the lake rippling through the ferns. You see, my mum and dad loved this place as much as I do. It was here where they were unfettered from the tireless cycle of life’s demands. It was here where we were free to explore, swim, fish, and simply be a family.
I look out over the lake and my thoughts drift back to something my dad told me many years ago. He’d turned, looked me in the eye, and told me quietly, almost as if he were asking permission, “We just want to be free for a while.” He’d just retired, and Mum and Dad were heading out to travel the country, visiting old places my dad had not seen since his time in the Air Corps during the Second World War, and exploring new places they had not seen before. They would also visit this land by the lake many, many times. It would be here, under the ferns atop the hill, where they both could be free and at peace, leaving me behind to be pleasantly haunted by my memories.
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Eric Kasten lives in Michigan with his wife, Debbie, and two cats. As a research scientist, he has co-authored numerous journal articles and book chapters on a variety of subjects including computer science, ecology, and informatics. Recently, he has rekindled his interest in creative writing and hopes his readers enjoy what he has to say. When he’s not writing, Eric enjoys roasting coffee, exceeding the speed limit while walking, and having long heartfelt discussions with his cats about their mysterious and unacceptable behavior.