C is for Cottage—Where the Past Still Answers the Door

 “Old people talk about the past because they have no futures and young people talk about the future because they have no pasts.” I’ve probably shared that Ann Landers quote before because it’s one of my favorites. The older I get, the more I understand the scary truth in those words. Sure, I’ve got plans that go beyond daily living, but none of them stretch much farther than whether I can recapture any of my lost art skills or lose enough weight to fit into the box of clothes I’ve got squirreled away under my bed. The former is doubtful, but since I’ve lost seven pounds since December’s weigh‑in at the doctor’s office, that second thing on my Bucket List is a tentative “maybe.”

With so many decades in my rear‑view mirror and only one decade in front of me—if I’m lucky—thinking about the future doesn’t come with the same optimism it once did. Yes, I know it’s all in my head. There are people my age doing exciting things: climbing mountains, jumping out of airplanes, running for political office, traveling the world. Developing a passion project and seeking adventures can happen at any age. On the other hand, it’s very First‑World of me to wish I could find my muse and live happily ever after wallowing in paints and canvas while looking better in a slimmed‑down body.

And yes, I am working up to the C Topic. When I think about the future, it feels hazy. But when I think about the past, many of my best memories don’t live in my head—they’re connected to a place and that place is a small, two bedroom cottage on a lake in West Michigan with a screened-in porch and a ton of oak leaves to rake each fall.

Looking back over my time on earth, the cottage stands out larger than life. By “cottage,” I mean the one my dad built when I was two and remodeled more times than I can count. The place where I spent all my summers growing up. The place where my parents retired and hosted countless holiday dinners and picnics. The cottage has always been the go‑to place my mind wanders when I think of home and family and good times.

If it were possible, I’d track Thomas Wolfe down and tell him he was wrong—you can go back home again. Of course, we all know his iconic 1940 book title, You Can’t Go Home Again, has become shorthand for the idea that once we’ve moved into the more sophisticated world of adulthood, with all its ups and downs, heartaches and headaches, joys and disappointments, any attempt to relive our youthful memories will fall flat. Nothing ever stays the same.

But what Thomas Wolfe didn’t know is that my niece bought the cottage when my dad died and presented my brother and me with keys tied with red satin ribbons that matched much of the décor inside the cottage. It was her way of saying we would always be welcome to stop by, even if no one was home. That was a few years back, and the door has since been swapped out, so the key no longer fits—but I know I’m still welcome.

She’s retro‑decorated the place, replacing the 1970s décor with a charming cross between mid‑century modern and a 1940s post‑war style. I love it. My niece didn’t just give it a face-lift and a new coat of lipstick; she gave it a wide smile and flirty eyes. And her "tweaking the place" is so like her grandmother, my mom, liked to do. Every time I go there, my memories meet me at the door and automatically put me in a playful, summertime mood.

I remember the rainy days of painting or putting jigsaw puzzles together, as well as the long days of swimming and boating. I remember every remodel project my dad did—every window and wall he moved. My mom should have had a house built out of Legos because her hobby seemed to be dreaming up changes for my dad to do. Growing up, the cottage was always changing. And it’s taken me until just this moment to see where my unfulfilled dream of becoming an architect was born. At the cottage, watching my parents measure and draw plans. Built and tear down. Paint and polish.

You might not be able to go back home again, but a visit—even in my thoughts—still has the power to teach me who I am and how I got here. ©