"What I'd give to return to the life that I knew lately, but I know that I can't solve my problems going back..."

The frigid Minnesota rain nipped at our cheeks as Maggie and I ran through the mud and up the slippery wood steps leading to "The Big Cabin." Laughing and out of breath I yanked open the screen door and let it slam shut with a twang behind us. "They're here! We can start the movie now" called out one of my many cousins, who were crammed into the damp room. We carefully maneuvered around the pile of wet, muddy shoes and made our way to an empty spot on the gritty, carpet floor. As I swiped a pillow from the couch I was leaning against and tried to get comfortable, the opening scene of Gladiator (it was always either Gladiator or Jurassic Park) appeared on the TV screen. I reflected on the numerous other rainy July nights when we had come together to watch a movie because the weather drove us inside.
That's why I loved this place; things never changed. Every year we had the same routine starting with a big breakfast of either pancakes or eggs and hash browns. Then we would have water-balloon fights and bounce on the giant black inner tube until our uncles got back from golfing. They were the only ones who could drive the boats. Next came the most monumental part of the whole day, tubing out on the lake. My cousin, Maggie and I lived for it (as our fathers did before us). We would spend hours riding over white-capped waves, gripping the tube with bloodless knuckles as the boat whipped us in circles. We laughed and screamed through gritted teeth so that we wouldn't chop off our tongues as the tube slapped against the icy water. A typical day of that July 4th week would then end with a huge tent dinner of scallop potatoes and ham with watered down fruit punch that always left bright red mustaches on kids' faces. In the evening, all the cousins in my age group would shoot off firecrackers, go for a walk under the stars, play mafia, or watch a movie if it was raining.
I awoke groggily and sat up. We had all fallen asleep halfway through the movie (we always did). Now the movie was over. Everyone was slowly getting up and filing out of the room and into the windy night to return to their own cabins. I grimaced as I felt a prickling needle-like sensation overpower my arm, which had fallen asleep under the weight of a cousin's head.
Once Maggie and I were settled in the lumpy pullout couch bed that had a metal bar sticking out in the middle (the same bed we always had when we stayed at my cabin), we huddled close and Maggie whispered with a sigh, "Isn't it wonderful how nothing ever changes here?" I knew exactly what she meant.
It wasn't as if nothing ever changed. We didn't hunt for minnows and live on candy cigarettes and blue and pink tart suckers like we did when we were younger, but the kids who were now the age we were then did. Each age group had its own routine. The kids bounced on the giant inner tube, feasted on cheap candy from "The Candy Store" (we never knew it's real name) because for some reason parents weren't as concerned about healthy diets while at the lakes. The kids also fished for minnows with tiny nets and made mud castles. The teenagers went tubing, jumped off of the bridge into the river, played volleyball, mafia, spoons, and, of course, watched Jurassic Park or Gladiator, while the adults took the kids out on the boats, cooked meals together, told stories around the bond fire, golfed, and played Catchphrase or Taboo. This had always been the routine, the one I was following, the one my father followed, and the one my grandmother had followed. It really wasn't any different. It was the same spirit, the same activities. The roles were the only thing that switched. Back home things were always changing, school, friends, surroundings; nothing stayed the same for very long. Everything was affected by the erosion of time, but not here. This family reunion had become the one thing I could depend on. It had become my comfort, my refuge. Though minor changes might occur, the unchangeable spirit of love, family, and joy, would always remain. I needed that. Though I had not understood it as a child, I knew now how much I needed this place, this family, this stability.
I smiled and took a deep breath, inhaling the same old, comfortable smell of mothballs emitting from the worn out mattress. "Yes, it is wonderful", I mumbled as I rolled over and went blissfully to sleep.