When I read the words in EB White's Once More to the Lake, I ache. His description of the smell of wood, the feel of the water, and the schedule set by the sun gives me a completely unearned sense of nostalgia. Most of my summer (and adult) trips to the lake have been marked by the anodyne scent of an RV air conditioner and the coconut-tainted slip and slide of sunscreen. But I ache for microwaved biscuits and gravy and cheese sandwiches and kool-aid. I can smell the fishy water covering the sandstone shore of Wilson Reservoir. I can see the treeless lunar landscape.
So this is your permission from me--not that you were seeking it--to engage in a Great American Pastime and head to the lake for Labor Day. Do it before the McMansions obliterate any of the charm that EB White talked about:
Do it even though, unlike him, you won't be able to spend a month there. Do it because someday you'll wonder what you've done with your life, and the answer of "I took my [kids/wife/husband/friends/enemies] to the lake once in a while, and we had fun and made memories" is better than "I got high and played a lot of video games."