But for the last week, my baby has been too tired for anything more adventurous than a foot rub before she’s passed out in bed by seven-thirty.
It’s five o’clock right now, and the birthday party is wrapping up, so there’s hope for us yet.
And there’s something I’ve been wanting to show her.
“Feel like taking a ride with me?”
Her smile is as sweet as honey. “Always.”
Once the party’s over and we’ve sent our employees home, we swing by the lodge and prod Russell from his favorite napping spot on the front porch. Because he hangs out at the lodge for most of the day, he’s a favorite with our campers, staff, and overnight guests.
He’s a sucker for belly rubs, and when kids are around, he’s likely to snag a bite of a dropped hot dog or a sprinkling of popcorn.
He doesn’t follow us all around like he used to unless we encourage him, but who could blame him.
“C’mon, boy,” I call, slapping my thigh. Russell ambles off the porch, a little slowly, sure, but wearing a canine grin.
The three of us head to the storage shed and pile into the Polaris. I love walking the grounds of Camp Bliss, but I have my reasons for taking four wheels this evening.
In the UTV, I can go off the beaten path, but instead of taking a short cut, I drive us back toward the lodge, passing Camp Bliss North along the way. After the lodge is CB South. Then the changing pavilion with the pathway that leads down to the lake. Set back behind the pavilion are our newest additions, The Fox and The Fawn, our two bunkhouses. Rather than more cabins, we opted for two larger, open-air structures with a design that is both minimal and functional. To look at them from the outside, you’d never think they’d each sleep sixteen campers—in four semi-separate quadrants each with two sets of bunk beds—and one counselor in an elevated sleeping loft.
We’ll build more on the other side of the lake one day.
But instead of taking the path all the way to the lake, I pull off the lane and lead us up the slope to the southeast corner of the property, which is a good ten acres of wide open prairie, broken only by two stout live oaks.
On a day I’ll never forget, Greta and I shared our first picnic beneath one of them.
I loop the Polaris around the trees and park it in the wide space between them. Sure, we could have walked out here. But the grass is high, and that might be an invitation to ticks. Greta and Pancake don’t need ticks.
I kill the Polaris’s growling engine and the whistle of late-day wind over the tall grass is our sudden symphony.
Even though it’s acres away, we’re facing the lake. From here, I could drive—or walk—in a straight line right up to the dock.
Down the slope to our left is pretty much everything we’ve built. And even though we can’t see it, deep in the treetops to the southwest is the clearing with our challenge course, and beyond that, more woods, and then the river.
Where Greta first told me she loved me.
I glance over at my wife and know just by looking at her face, glowing in the gold of the setting sun, she’s taking it all in. Just like I am. How far we’ve come. All we’ve achieved. And all that lies ahead.
I take her hand in mine.
“What about this spot for a front porch view?”
Greta whips her gaze at me. “W-What?”
I fight a massive grin because it’s hard to outdo her many little—and not so little—surprises. But I can see she had no idea this was coming.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and pull up pictures of the architectural plans. I commissioned them almost three months ago—before either of us knew about Pancake. The architect sent them to me last week, and I’ve been dying to show them to her.
But not just anytime. Not just anywhere.
Right here. Right now. As the sun paints everything—the prairie grass, the lake, Greta—in her rosy gold.
Greta gasps when I hand her my phone, and she sees the floorplan for a two-story, four bedroom house.
“Oh my,” she murmurs as she swipes through the digital renderings of exterior and interior details.
It’s not grand. It’s not luxurious.