Bliss is Ignorance

Windjammer resort at Spider Lake had six lovely, spacious cottages, plus the one we were to stay in. Having made our reservations late, we inherited by default the one that hadn't been remodeled yet.

There we stood- seven people, seven suitcases, and six bags of groceries in the living/dining/kitchen combo. This multi-purpose room (you could stand or you could sit, but you couldn't move) measured seven feet by nine feet. It contained an unfortunate avocado green table with four plaid chairs (circa 1965), a sink with no counter, two tiny cupboards filled with the kind of dishes my parents got free at the A&P in1955, but no two pieces matched, a tiny gas stove, probably 70 years old, with three burners that had cooked their last meal during WWII, and one that wanted badly to join them in their retirement, some scrubby brown carpet, and- the piece de resistance- an incongruously attractive Stearns and Foster sofa bed. But there was no where to open it.

The refrigerator was in the hallway. Actually, it was the hallway. Next to the fridge, which was elegant and - monstrous, lurked a tiny bathroom decorated in Early Afterthought and soaking wet carpet. Two minute rooms each held a bed and a doll dresser. From the doorways (there weren't any doors), you had a choice of opening a drawer or climbing into bed. Changing clothes in there was a risk none of us was willing to take.

One glance and ten seconds was all it took for the rest of the family to drop their stuff on the floor and tear outside to the picturesque beach. There I stood, alone with the groceries and the challenge of creating a household where barely a house existed. I thought of Erma Bombeck and all the pioneer women who had gone before me and bravely began my task, griping loudly as if there were someone around to hear me- Ha! I didn't care. If I had to suffer, and apparently I did, it certainly wasn't going to be in silence.