We Three & Some Summer Spontaneity at South Haven

The funeral was drawing to an end; in a few days I would have that empty ‘it’s over’ feeling. Alone, not knowing how to process the whirlwind of the last two weeks.

I lamented to my cousins and a plan sparked: a weekend at their parents’ Michigan beach house.

My cousin grabbed my hand like we were young and we skipped over to her father, head cocked she asked, “Dad….can Lisa stay overnight at the beach house?” A question that was the foundation of our growing up–the answer usually an instant ‘no’.

“Why not? It’s a revolving door there anyway.” I think we squealed at the decibel level or prepubescent girls. Time was of the essence, there would be fireworks on the beach if we hurried. I packed in 15 minutes and we headed east–just ‘we three’.

With decades of catching up, our conversation began with women stuff and bounced around until Chicagoland traffic made us stir crazy and unsure if we would see the fireworks display. Texts came in from family already setting up camp on the beach: We’re by the playground. One message was obviously not for us: Stand up so I can see where you are!! We were jealous and resigned to the realization that we may have to settle for dime store sparklers. Then the cell tower circuits overloaded with the thousands of beach visitors–there would be no more communication.

We came up with a brilliant plan: when we got there, we’d go to the edge of the swingset and whistle–surely our family would recognize our whistling. We laughed at our naivete. We three, alone for just hours, had reverted back to convoluted childhood schemes we actually thought would work.

We got to the beach house easily, there was no traffic because everyone was at the beach, used the bathroom faster in record time and began a late night trek to the beach, each thunderous boom causing us to wonder allowed how much we’d missed or if the show had started. As our feet hit the edge of the beach there was one glorious firework–we’d made it! We shuffled toward the playground, and obviously one text had gotten through, my cousin’s husband was waiting by the swings for his wife (and a kiss). He grabbed her hand, she grabbed her sister’s, and her sister grabbed mine.

We ran hand-in-hand-in-hand across the beach in our funeral finery, fireworks illuminating the way to our waiting family. “Aunt Lisa, you can sit here,” was the invitation from my cousin’s son. I breathed in deeply, damp sand at my head, thinking “Exactly twelve hours ago, I was surrounded by family in a church basement with a funeral service just moments away.”