Yesterday, I spent the day on one of the many, many lakes in northeastern Indiana. A friend’s mom and dad have a lake cottage, so a group of about 10 of us ate brats, rode around on the pontoon, played cornhole and soaked up some sun.
The only other soul there who wanted to go in the water was my beau (these types of instances just make me fall in love more). The bottom of this particular lake is very weedy, but there’s a strip of sand just off the dock of my friend’s place.
So the beau, being the gentleman that he is, put on some water shoes. I crawled on a raft and he pushed me out to the sandbar — Queen of Sheeba style — so I wouldn’t have to walk on the muck without water shoes.
The water was only about 4 1/2 feet deep, but it cooled us off. And, sweeter still, it got us away from everyone else so we could just be for a moment. Why are water kisses so dear?
As we floated and looked around at all the amazing properties around us, I asked him, “What’s your dream house look like?”
“Stone facing,” he said immediately. “Two stories. Kind of rustic. And on a mountain overlooking the ocean.”
I’m in love.