“Conner, we’re here, what do you have planned?” This said via text—he doesn’t answer phone calls. God forbid if I leave a voicemail. He informed me ages ago that nobody leaves voicemail.

Spokane offers many amenities—the downtown area is vastly improved, the parks are fabulous but the cab drivers are another thing.

Our cabin at Lake Chelan is rather restricting for our spoiled dogs, Gus and Jack. Each morning we take them to the park for a walk. The mode of transport being our super-jacked golf cart. Mr. Big and Mr. Small ride shotgun in a box on the floor. They fully enjoy the trip because they know Tom and I stop for coffee on the way to the park at the drive-through Starbucks. The barista knows Mr. Big and Mr. Small and has a treat waiting for them each morning. This morning started as usual except that my friend, Dorkus and my daughter Leslie accompanied me today.

Our recent guest at the cabin, Tracy Codd insisted that I make the trip to Blueberry Hill, after he picked berries—lots of berries. Twelve freaking pounds of blueberries. Not one to dismiss a challenge, I headed to the blueberry patch the next day. The city mouse headed out to the country. The rows of blueberry bushes beckoned at the ‘You Pick’ farm. I’d been a patron before, as a waffle gobbler at the Blueberry Hills restaurant. Someone else did the pickin for the delicious homemade blueberry syrup.

Tom and I have reached our limits with running the Lake Chelan Boarding House for wayward teens. I don’t really like to cook and preparing meals for 15 plus people is my idea of purgatory. Our solution to this kitchen drudgery is genius—each of our three kids has their turn at a meal. How fun for them! Sort of like a new funny game. This of course includes, planning the meal, shopping, setting the table and of course, dish duty—no paper plates allowed and cold cereal does not make a meal. The first meal was rather tasty, teriyaki tri-tip, salad, and a fondue disguised as fettuccini.

For some people, Memorial Day is synonymous with the dreaded opening of a dust-filled cabin. For the last ten years Tom and I have made the trek to Chelan from Seattle in great anticipation of consistent sun—you know that bright shiny globe that sometimes peeks out from behind mostly cloudy Seattle skies. Insect corpses have fallen victim to some deadly musty cabin virus and line the windowsills. The shrubs reach skyward ignoring the not so funny five-foot bush height rule. Once the cabin is put in order by our willing offspring, we are ready to relax.

Thunder in the Sun in Manson, Washington produces some side-splitting entertainment on a sunny day in the fall.

We trudge to the next camp that we aptly named “skeeter hole”. As I am having lunch, I contemplate reading my book for the remainder of the afternoon. I soon notice that, Craig begins pacing and waving his arms about his head helicopter style. I observe the bugs are surrounding his head like a cloud. Funny, how he attracts the little blood suckers. This necessitates yet another hike so Craig can outrun his torturers. We manage to find our destination, however my spouse darts to the trail with the most shale, again, I fall on my butt and loudly curse his choice of trails.

My husband does not like the gifts that I buy him, most of the time he “re-gifts” HIS present to one of our children—the kids find this very humorous.The gift then shows up like an unwanted boomerang under the tree the following year. Soon my husband will be celebrating the big Five-O, unlike me; he does not prefer big parties. When I think about possible birthday surprises that I might give him, I recall an adventure that he truly enjoyed.