by Michael Yaworsky

Not every summer, but every once in a while when one of my uncles came to visit from out of state, he and my other aunts and uncles would pool their resources and rent a cabin, or “camp,” on Owasco Lake for two weeks. These cozy (that’s a euphemism) seasonal residences generally consisted of a main room furnished with a couple of chairs, a lamp, an end table, and a couch that could double as a bed; a small kitchen; a bathroom; and one or two sparsely furnished bedrooms. My uncle and his family would stay at the cabin, the rest of us would drop by when we could for an afternoon or evening, or if we were lucky, the whole day.

The beauty of these cabins was that while you were there you were essentially living outdoors, with the building serving merely as a place to change clothes, use the bathroom, and prepare meals. Everyone not immediately engaged in one of those functions would be out relaxing in the yard, maybe playing badminton or Jarts, napping in a beach chair, or playing in the lake (if you were a kid) or monitoring the kids playing in the lake (if you were an adult). We always had these camps in the late summer, so the lake stayed bath-water warm late into the evening.

Thinking back on all those times, living indoors and outdoors as seamlessly as if nature was an extension of our living room, it strikes me that one of the grandest of all the features of those cabins, or any cabin, or indeed any place of accommodation, is the screen door. Yes, the screen door, that humble, little-celebrated structural accoutrement that serves our summertime needs so well whether it’s affixed to a rented cabin, an opulent summer home, or an average ranch house like the one I grew up in. The screen door epitomizes everything summer stands for: a permeable border between the comfortable amenities of indoor living and a carefree life of frolic out in the sun and air, with the luxury to shift instantly between the two without needing to put on a jacket, a sweatshirt, or even shoes. The sumptuousness of having all nature as your abode while being able to scoot inside if you need to without even turning a door handle. The ability to kick the door open to go outside when your hands are occupied, like maybe carrying a pot of corn out to the gang on the beach, without everyone behind you yelling “close the door, you’ll let the bugs in!” The freedom to dash outside quickly enough that your ice cream doesn’t drip on the rug, then back in to grab a baseball glove if a game starts materializing out in the yard. The ability to converse through the door – even see through the door – without having to open it. Being able to transition between romping in the lake, grabbing a cold drink from the fridge, toasting marshmallows on the beach, and ducking inside to use the bathroom, so quickly that your swimsuit doesn’t even have a chance to drip on the floor.

When you hear the squeak of those springs and the click of that little toggle-thing that enables the door to close without slamming, that little “doink” that tells you it’s shut, you are instantly reminded (not that you need reminding) that it’s summer, so go out and play!

Michael Yaworsky is a retired lawyer/legal editor. He lives in Rochester’s 19^th Ward with his family.