AUGUST 16, 2026 – We tend to idealize about the past, complain about the present, and worry about the future. All too often I find myself in this three-way rut in life, though sometimes I scramble these, complaining about the past, idealizing about the future and worrying about the present.
Take the family cabin experience, for example, since at this writing, I’m in the middle of it. As I observe all three of our grandchildren—the infant napping upstairs after a crying fit inside and out; the three-year-old playing on the porch with his enormous inventory of toys that Grandma hauled away from multiple Good Will stores, washed and entrusted to me for transport to the Red Cabin; and the 10-year-old, perched on a high stool at the end of the long table just beyond the toys, drawing in one of her sketchbooks—I think back to memories of when I was at each of those stages: before I could walk, being carried in my dad’s strong arms as he exited the back porch of our old family cabin down the shore from where I write this and into a small clearing where he pointed up at the stars and expressed his wonderment; as a three-year old playing earnestly in the sturdy green cabin-sandbox our grandfather had made for my sisters and me; as a 10-yer-old enjoying the elaborate meals that our grandmother prepared for us and watching Dad and Grandpa split and stack another season’s worth of firewood.
Those were the halcyon days, when the rhythm of summer life at the cabin was so reassuringly secure and predictable. In retrospect, however, what passed as “halcyon” in my childhood had fewer requirements than what would qualify as idyllic today. The subjunctive tense reflects the inevitable gap between “the dream” and reality; between the longing for all the elements—real and imagined—of those halcyon days, when in hindsight, everyone and everything seemed to be in perfect alignment . . . and how people and events in present life seem to be chronically out of alignment.
Cabin life today plays a much-diminished role in our family. Consequently, even my wife has lost interest in spending time here. It’s become an unending maintenance project with no purpose: family visits are few, rendering the place hollow and lonely. These conditions are aggravated by the fact that for reasons beyond explanation, our son in closest proximity to it can’t enjoy the place but for one or two days a year, which means neither can his daughter, our oldest grandchild, and their absence is painful. How can that ever contribute to the much-wished-for idyll?
Yet, yesterday, as if by some miracle against fading hope, our son and his daughter did appear. They joined in with the family of brother and uncle. I watched with delight, the interactions between brother; between uncles and nephew and nieces; between cousins. In short order, this beautiful but lonely, secluded place came alive with the same spirit of yore. It would be for all too short a time, but I could see a special bonding occur, one that was centered on place—this place—and that without sustaining this family cabin for the long quiet periods when I’m here alone or the even longer, quieter times when no one is here, there would be even less occasion for that special bonding among family members. When and where, I thought rhetorically, would our older son pick up his seven-month-old niece, lift her high and smile at her—prompting her to smile in return? That image alone was priceless, highlighting the immeasurable value of this place.
Our spirited three-year-old grandson thinks his older cousin walks on water. He emulates everything she says or does, and within seconds after she slips out of sight, he asks, “Where’s Y’ana?” (His pronunciation of “Illiana.”)
But perhaps the most precious minutes of all came long after everyone else had retired for the night. I had the porch to myself and used the quiet time at day’s end to sit down and write. At around midnight, “Y’ana” entered the porch and sat down in the chair next to mine.
“What do you do if you can’t get to sleep, Grandpa?” she asked in voice just above a whisper.
“I think of some beautiful scene,” I said. “In my imagination, I fill in the picture with details, one thing at a time, much as you do when you’re drawing or painting a picture. I usually start off in the country somewhere—you know out in nature. I just keep adding to the picture—a winding dirt road, a meadow, an old picturesque barn, a field of wildflowers, a wooded hill in the distance . . . until it turns into a dream and I’m asleep.”
“Hmmm. Does it always work?”
“Most of the time.”
What then occurred to me was that while we talked in low voices there on the porch, the nighttime sky was probably filled with starlight. I wanted Illiana to see it. “Hey! Let’s go out on the dock and see if the stars are out.”
Illiana followed me down the steps and along the path across the yard past the fire pit and toward the dock. At the top of the narrow ramp, I took her hand. “We have to be careful here,” I said. “No going over the side.” I led her to the end of the dock where it widens out before I let go of her hand. We looked at the great expanse over the lake, and though some clouds lingered, a gazillion stars were visible nevertheless. “Isn’t that something?” I said.
“Yes,” said Illiana.
“You know what we have to do.”
“Make a wish?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Now choose a star.”
Together we recited the familiar lines: “Star light, star bright, upon you I wish tonight . . .”
In silence we each made a wish. We lingered a few moments later to absorb the immensity of the universe—or rather, our teeny tiny galactic corner of it. “Okay,” I said. “We should go get some sleep.”
If I can be assured that Illiana formed a long-term memory of that brief time at the end of the dock, surveying the starlight in the nighttime sky of a warm summer night and pondering the imponderable, then it can be truly said that these are my “halcyon hours” at the family cabin. What’s far more important to me, however, is not what constitute my “halcyon hours” or “halcyon days,” but what will define Illiana’s and her cousins’.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
