Night

During the day, the path between the cabin and the little icehouse where Zoey and I sleep is child's play, a 75-foot long leafy trot where mosquitoes reign as king of the beasts.

But at night, things change. The thick black blanket of darkness sets the mind running.

The icehouse, as viewed from the cabin

'Don't let bears eat me,' mumbled a sonambulent Zoey last night as she hung her little booty off the deck for a midnight pee.

With all my grownup knowledge of who-knows-what-really, reassurance rolled easily off my tongue, but I take that path at a quick clip myself when I'm walking alone in the pitch black. I can convince myself of anything late at night, and usually veer towards the macabre.

Earlier this week, I put Zoey to sleep in the icehouse and ran back to the cabin in the rain, only to nearly collide with a skunk. My fear of waking the children proved more powerful than the terror induced by the potent house-cat-sized predator, (such that I was able to muffle my scream to below ear-piercing,) but my heart was pounding.

No need to worry about sleeping children. As it turned out, they were busy amusing themselves with the photo booth on Kate's computer:

 

Yes, we appear to have a swarm of small people here. And in truth, we do, though two are in fact missing, and are missed very much:

Our nephew and niece, Lucas and Agatha, live outside Pamplona, Spain, and couldn't make it to Maine this year.

When sleepiness finally overtook us all, I returned to the icehouse to snuggle down with Zoey and, as it turned out, an unexpected guest — a large grasshopper who apparently yearned for a soft place to lay his head:

The three of us survived the night just fine.