Leaving a legacy

This is a picture of our summer home in northern New York. When I see it I think of love. Many generations of our family have vacationed here, and my extended family's archival slide show is a 50-50 split between Christmas shots and pictures of smiling faces at the lake.

A few years ago it became apparent that the hundred-year-old camp needed a new roof. My aging parents couldn't afford it, so ultimately my husband and I purchased the camp. But it turned out the roof was only one problem in a structure pieced together through the decades by weekend carpenters armed with determination, enough brawn to swing a hammer, and enough paint to make it look good in the end. (I also suspect a wad of bubblegum or two.) They had succeeded in turning what was once a hunting shanty into a two-story camp, but without the proper forethought and foundation work, it was no longer safe.

My good friend Doug, principal architect of Lifespan Design Studio—after he could breathe again, laughing as he had at my stories of how the door at the bottom of the second floor dresser opened on its own when you hit the spongy floorboard, or how the bottom two stairs were movable because they obstructed a doorway—designed us a wonderful new camp, pictured above. "New roof" to "new camp" was not an easy transition, though. We had to say goodbye to spaces that housed many happy memories, some centered around family members long gone. We had to set difficult financial priorities that made our retirement years feel less secure.

But we took a deep breath—and then, the bulldozer. In a few months, our camp went from the oldest on the lake to the newest.

Last year I happily made the 13-hour round trip drive to the lake nine times to check on progress, deliver materials, and work (now I'm glad gas prices hadn't yet spiked)—because I loved the new camp from the moment I first saw it. The pain of our decision-making faded away with the smell of mildew we had once thought was an integral part of the camp experience. And the new bedrooms and open communal spaces inspired a thought: what a great place to have a writing retreat. Guests could write on the porch overlooking the lake, on the shore, or down on the dock. Ideas could simmer on the back burner while paddling, hiking, or swimming. We could have popcorn parties to discuss work in the cool evenings while gathered around the fireplace.

I'm heading up there alone, the day after tomorrow, to give the writing retreat idea a personal test run. The memoir I'm writing is difficult, making me all too willing to be distracted by the phone, appointments, and e-mails at home. I think that I could hang with my writing for longer blocks of time surrounded by the wild beauty of the Adirondack foothills. So for six whole days, I am going "rustic." (That used to mean no indoor toilet facilities—now it means no Internet.) I want—I need—to write this story of healing since my first husband's suicide. Even if it doesn't see publication I hope it to be my legacy, handed down through the generations of my family.

Then I uploaded the above picture to this blog and realized my husband and I have already created a family legacy. If the last camp survived a hundred years by determination alone, a good foundation and a design addressing our needs should net us at least double that, wouldn't you think? I guess that's what I'll be writing about while I'm there: the way that, after the deterioration that resulted in my first husband's suicide, the boys and I laid a foundation for a new life designed to suit our needs. 

I'll let you know how that goes next week.