It’s the middle of May now and in five months it’ll be the middle of October. The bright green lawns of May will be replaced by the dull lawns of October. The flowers that are trying to bloom soon will have long since lost their petals. The leaves that we root for today will be browning and dying. The spring wind that whips the warmth up from the South will be turning and will, instead, bring the cold and damp from the North. The piers that are soon to be painted white will be chipping and peeling and they’ll be stacking messily on the lakeside lawns, atop that dead grass and next to piles of once thriving leaves. The boats that confidently roar to life this week will sheepishly putter onto trailers before they’re driven up the hill and around the corner where they’ll sit for another seven months on a rack in a barn with thousands of other reminders of summer. The cushions that I haven’t yet put out on my outdoor furniture will be right where they are today: In my garage, stuck up in the rafters where I hope the mice won’t find them.
So much work, for such a minuscule amount of time. Work, work work, for what? For a little tiny bit of play? Spend, spend, spend, why? So that your friends can come up one weekend and eat your food and make a mess of your otherwise perfect guest room? Why do we struggle like this? What’s the point of it all? It hasn’t even started yet and it’s pretty much over. Blink and it’ll be Memorial Day. Wake up tomorrow and it’ll be Independence Day and my neighbors will be celebrating with all of the fireworks they bought in Indiana. Nap in the afternoon and it’ll be Labor Day and the Water Safety Patrol will be running their reds, wrapping the lake to tell you it’s already over. Why are you still watching, when it’s obviously over?
So why do we do it? Why do we spend so much money and time making sure we have the best chance to enjoy the next few months? Is it really worth it? Millions upon millions of dollars allocated and spent for the hope of one perfect summer evening, when the hydrangeas are in bloom and the lake turns its deepest summery shade of blue. One perfect night when nothing could be better. One perfect night when your kids are at the house and they’re grown but for a few moments your house feels like it did years ago: complete. One perfect night when the lamps in the screen porch cast the softest of incandescent light and your grandma tells the story you’ve heard a hundred times and still don’t believe. Why do we sweat so much? Because when it all comes together at the lake there’s simply nothing better. Seneca said it’s the superfluous things for which men sweat. I think he was wrong. We sweat for the hope of one perfect evening at the lake, and the promise that at this point in May, those perfect nights are right around the corner.