Weekends at the Cottage: Cherished Childhood Escapes

It was a warm, sunny Friday afternoon, and I rode in my dad’s minivan as we headed to the cottage. The drive was always something I looked forward to. Along the way, we stopped at an old gas station we visited every trip. Inside, a whole row of candy lined the shelves, and my dad would let me pick out a handful (stash)—enough to last the whole weekend.

Arriving at the cottage felt like coming home. It was my favorite place growing up, filled with memories and simple joys. My dad had set up a room with a set of bunk beds and a single twin bed. I always slept on the bottom bunk, perfectly content just to be there.

Our dog, Carmel, loved the cottage as much as we did. She was smart enough to figure out how to open and close the door, though once, she came racing inside, yelping in distress—she had stumbled into a beehive, and her whole face swelled up. It was a sight I’ll never forget.

Fishing with my dad was one of the best parts of our weekends. We were pretty good at catching fish big enough for dinner. My brother, on the other hand, somehow always managed to hook a duck, old fishing line, or a turtle instead.

On Saturdays, we’d spend hours out on the boat as a family, cruising up and down the lake, soaking in the beauty of it all. Time seemed to slow down out there, the sun sparkling on the water, and the hum of the boat.

Before I knew it, Sunday would arrive, and it was time to clean up and head home. I never wanted to leave, but I knew another weekend at the cottage was always just around the corner.

Those were some of the best days of my life, and I’ll always be grateful for the memories.