Exercising

I would like to have three or four more children and three or four more dogs.  I would like to live on a vast plot of land that has a small but deep pond under a large willow tree.  There would be a long narrow dock where I could run and jump into the water.  It would be cold at first but quickly turn to refreshing.  There would be a white rowboat with old flowery plastic cushions on the benches.  You could lean on the cushions when you reached the middle of the pond and just wanted to float.

In the winter, we would drill a hole in the lake so water would seep up and freeze, offering us a smooth place to skate.  The rowboat would lean against a small hut, where we could plug in a kettle and serve hot chocolate.  An old log would serve as a bench in both seasons.  I would be surrounded by my kids and my dogs and I would sip hot chocolate loudly. Dogs would lick the droplets off my boots and my kids would say oh dad.

I would like the house to be a 10 minute walk from the pond along a meandering path.  On each side of the path there would be of ominous bushes with branches like fortunetellers’ fingers.  The eldest kids would tell stories about scratches from the branches, frightening the younger ones.  I would chuckle and tell them to not believe a word they say.  They would not listen.  The house would have a porch.  I would sneak to the side of the porch for the occasional miniature cigar. The kids would accuse me of always smelling like gum and the fireplace.

Oh the fireplace!  A massive stone hearth with a grey barn beam. So big the smallest of my children could almost stand in it, which she would do in the summer when it was too hot to burn toast, much less firewood.  There would be a chair in the corner that could seat two adults or four children and I would make up stories about my father’s stories.  About an albatross that perched on top of the navy ship or a white whale that followed the ship around for days.  I would mention the dolphins that swam beside the catamaran that one time, hurling their slick bodies out of the water in what only could be described as glee.

The older kids would start to ignore me and then the younger kids would be distracted by a crack of thunder or the sudden strobe of sheet lightning.  I would sip a beverage and fall asleep in that chair, reading glasses perched on my chest, youngest now nestled under my arm, finding her own place of peace.

I would startle awake and be alone, almost scared, house dark, until the sliding of my wife’s socked feet on hardwood approached.  Fell asleep in the chair again she would say and I would ask her to help me up.  You’re getting old she would say and would ignore her or not hear her.  The glass of water would be cold.  The flannel sheets warm.