Deep Ends and S. P. R. I. T. E.

IYKYK

First things first-this post is written by me. No AI, no outside advice, no outside intellectual input whatsoever has been allowed *wink. I only ask grace for typos, grammar abuses and any poor choices-on or off the page- I may have made while writing…

Photo by Patrick on Unsplash

The road home is due west, and I’m blinded by the brilliant light of the setting sun slicing through my windshield, or it could be from tears filling-again and again- flowing no matter how hard I try to hold them back. The last country mile before our driveway I pray cars and deer are busy elsewhere because I won’t be able to see them if they stray into my lane. I am wrung out by the brutal beauty of absolutely everything.

I’m not sure when it began. Camp Sassafras, what we call our annual family summer gathering, has grown from a simple hot dog roast around the backyard fire pit into a days long gathering involving campers, tents, pancakes and bacon cooked over an open fire, mosquito bites, smores, staying up too late and getting up too early. We even have a camp flag sewn from scraps appliqued to part of an old sheet. Camp has grown as our family has and has begun to evolve, just as we have.

This year there were no tents or campers, no campfires or smores but that isn’t what it has ever been about. It’s about who we are-this sometimes ragged patchwork that makes a family – our differences, weird family traits, inside jokes, helpless laughter, tender frustrations, all which are mostly held together by band aids and a binding, abiding love. That and an even deeper knowledge that nothing that happens can put any one of us outside that space. This year looked a little different as we gathered in a new way, but most importantly we were still all in one spot, together.

Cook outs happened around a grill instead of a campfire, with more hands helping to make sure all the food was prepared and ready on time. Breakfasts were casual and happened in waves instead of a flood and flurry. Full coffee pots crisscrossed the parking lot as did mimosa fixings, or butter, or cereal-whatever happened to not be where it was needed. There were early morning beach walks and trail hikes, a lakeside sunset complete with sand football and takeout pizza(I surprised them all with a couple of bullet passes that hit their marks). We squeezed in a girls only birthday celebration leaving the men in charge…come what may(everyone survived).

Hanging around the pool turned into Olympic “diving’ competitions, relay races, and overcoming fears of the deep end. One of my eight-year-old granddaughters was afraid to jump in and I offered to hold her hand so we could jump together. Then, one by one, the others hurried out of the pool to join in and we all jumped at once. The security and strength of all that ‘together’ supported her as she leapt (tell me there’s not a metaphor in there). In two days’ time she was attempting flips and twists with Olympic confidence against any cousin who would compete. In this moment, the light of who we are shown so brightly it obscured the world and all its messiness. There was no ‘news’, there was a signature cocktail and S. P. R. I. T. E. (everyone can spell now except the baby is what makes it funny ). No politics, only bad dad jokes and silly kid humor, ice cream cones, double chocolate oatmeal cookie bars, and the deep end.

All during camp, I kept catching flashes of my children as they once were-the little ones I loved so fiercely and completely-and still do. The bend in a collar bone, broken at birth, remains at forty. Mysterious scars, that no cajoling could usher the truth of their being from an intransigent teen, still hurt my heart a little when I saw them. A tattoo inked before leaving for war-- seeing that takes me right back to the ache of waiting for his return. And now these children have their own and I know where that road leads-I’ve been where they are and where they are going, I know that no amount of me telling them that will change a thing. This is their journey, but I hope they realize I will always be waiting, should they ever need me, around the edges, always willing to come alongside them, hold their hand and jump.

Of the four condo’s we had over the weekend, we still had a night remaining in one we reserved for an extra night so no one felt rushed out after an early checkout time and we could decompress once camp wrapped up. It was a space to pile belongings, gather and eat, change after swimming or just hang out before heading home. As Sunday wore on good-byes happened around the pool where damp, chlorine and salt scented hugs were  exchanged-sometimes more than once. Kisses, tears and smiles, with tiny faces held closely to look deeply into shades of hazel, and brown, and blue in the hopes of transmitting just how much love is carried for them. One family stays for a final swim and leftover pizza before we closed the book on Camp Sassafras 2024.

I couldn’t stay that last night. My heart kept seeing sun kissed cheeks, skinned knees, a couch tangle of bare legs and elbows as cousins clumped together. My grown children, and their amazing spouses, leaning against counters, or tending the grill, grabbing something from the cooler, all wearing tie dyed shirts(this years swag) in fifteen different colors and designs on bodies too small for the smallest size, too large for the largest size with many of us landing somewhere in between. I could hear echoes of laughter and giggles, of the youngest proudly calling out ‘Hewwo!’, someone announcing “I’m HUNGRY” from the bottom of the cousin pile (I wonder if that couch will ever dry out from all those soggy suits?). The lingering grit on the floor, remnants of the beach that no matter how careful we were insisted on following us back. The ghosts felt all too real, too recent. The comfortable envelope of who we are felt all too empty. I needed to go home. So we did.

It wasn’t a perfect weekend; we are a family after all. We don’t always agree, we each shoulder our own stresses and burdens, believe our own things, which means there was the occasional friction-it is inevitable with all that human-ness in one place. But, for one brief weekend, a stretch of time outside real life, we were lined up-a hodgepodge of bodies leaning against each other; old, young, tall, taller, not tall, feet in the sand making silly faces, or bunny ears, or peace signs, smiling into the sun-the great big real smiles that go all the way to the eyes. The kind of smiles that reach out and grab you by the heart, squeezing just enough to make it hard to breathe. That make the tears come whether you want them or not. That make you sit down from the unbearable weight of how damned beautiful it all is.

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This must be a ‘deep end’ season. Coming into Substack to post this I found the words of

Laura B.

at Chasing the Blue Flower ,

Kris Camealy

at Stories along the Way, and

John Blase

at Beyond the Pale -all carrying a bass note hum of deep truths and hard things. If you made it this far, thanks for reading. Make sure to check out the amazing writers I just mentioned-they don’t shy away from the deep end. As always you can find my creative work over at

The Writist

where I share what living into a creative life looks like. You might find art, you might find poetry, sometimes both.

‘til next time, grab a hand and jump-

Susan