Epilogue

I love the glassine look of the lake in the stillness of the early morning. After our run, Neal and I plop ourselves down on the porch of our home and enjoy the listening to the soulful cries of the distant loons. Soon, the great lodge down the drive will be bustling with children and their counselors, clamoring for their breakfast before hurtling off to their daily activities. For the moment, we are content to just be there, shoulder to shoulder, knee against knee.

I still find myself staring at Neal. Though manhood long ago filled out his frame, his angular face retains a handsome, boyish softness. His raven-black hair still stands out starkly against his complexion, so much so that people often insist that, at his age, he must be coloring it. I assure such busy-bodies, that he does not. Certainly, when and if his hair starts to turn gray, he won't give a tinker's cuss about it. Neal makes whatever he wears look good, whether it's our favored flannels, or the tuxedo he wore when we were finally able to be legally married in the State of New York.

Neal brings me tea in the morning, preferring coffee himself; I find my eyes wandering down to the delicious looking bump in this running shorts. He smiles, and shakes his head in bemusement.

"You're incorrigible," he says, his lopsided smile makes me smile too. We settle in next to one another in that easy familiarity of the long-married, even if only recently official.

A tall, willowy, red-headed young man of twenty-two, holding his own mug of coffee, strolls out onto the porch where Neal and I are sitting; he's right on schedule.

"Hey Dad," he says, bending over to kiss me on the top of my head as he waves brightly to Neal, "Good morning Poppa!"

"Good morning Coop," Neal chuckles warmly, "What's on your agenda for today?"

That's Cooper, our oldest, and our only biological child. It's a long story, and I may tell it one day, but the short of it is that Lizzie Talbot (nee Barnstable), having born a litter of her own five boys and one girl, offered herself up to us both as a surrogate. We found a doctor who allowed me and Neal to mix our sperm. At the time, Lizzie joked that it was the closest she'd ever get to bed either one of us. Luckily, the procedure "took" immediately, and after an uncomplicated pregnancy, Cooper came squalling into the world.

There could be no doubt which one of our swimmers caught up to Lizzie's egg, but to look at him, you would swear to see elements of the both of us. He favored me in height, his soft, red hair and freckles, but his athletic build, squared shoulders and piercing eyes could just as easily be from Neal. Actually, you could say that about the rest of our children; even though they are all adopted from disparate families, each one looks like they sprouted from the same family tree.

"I've got a staff meeting after breakfast, and then I'll be running the high-ropes course today." During his summers off from college, Cooper ran the camp staff like a seasoned professional. Most of them were recent, or near-to, high school grads working during the seven week summer camp season, and they did everything from cooking, to grounds maintenance, to cabin turnover, minor and major repairs to buildings and plumbing; in short, everything that needs to be done to keep a summer camp running.

At Cooper's insistence, we installed the high-ropes course amidst the tallest trees on the property, which included various (and vertiginous) horizontal and vertical challenges. Cooper had scouted several other summer camps to get ideas for Laurelwood, and high-ropes was one of those high-adventure options that appealed to him. The company that designed and installed the course, also trained Cooper and several members of our staff, on how to safely run all the various ropes, pulleys, turnbuckles, carabiners and safety harnesses. The company also sends experts to inspect the facility every year before campers even arrive. It is all very confusing to me, and while Neal is also trained and has conquered the most challenging elements, I could never bring myself to do it. The campers love it, so it was a good investment.

Camp Laurelwood was Neal's idea. After my father died, leaving the property to me, I briefly considered parceling it out, and selling most of it off. There were some very serious offers from developers who wanted to raze the place and either build some kind of chic mountain resort getaway, or build some ridiculously large estate on the lakefront. Some of the neighbors caught wind of those ideas and made a point of telling me how they felt. They need not have worried, I never gave any of those offers more than a moment's consideration. Instead, Neal and I took to renovating the big structures, such as the lodge, tearing down some of the oldest cabins, which sadly, included our little hunter's cabin, and building a series of seasonal cabins, as well as several more winterized buildings across the 120 acre property. Neal drew up the papers and, "Viola!", Camp Laurelwood was born.

Camp Laurelwood operates year-round, but is most active during the summer. We resurrected Christmas-in-the-Pines, but renamed it the "Adirondack Family Christmas", which somehow seems easier to sell. Lizzie and her brood come and help with that one. The camp is transformed into a cheery, snowy, Christmas village and a few years we started offering horse-drawn sleigh rides along the lake road and around a dedicated trail cut through the woods. It has become very popular. This, and various other retreats, sometimes sponsored by churches whose members often travel quite a distance, help to keep our little venture profitable. Cooper is full of ideas, and he already knows well how to run the place. When Neal and I retire in, perhaps, about ten years or so, he'll be more than able to keep the business going.

The twins, Hunter and Clayton, emerge yawning and stretching. We adopted them at the age of two, when Cooper was nine. Typical 15 year-olds, vacillating between brooding and goofy, they are nonetheless, a joy to both of us. This morning they are quiet, content to sit with "the fam" and be chill. Clayton is the hands-on, electro-mechanical savant of the family. He can tear down a motor and put it all back together again. Anything electronic is his playground, as evidenced by the neat bench kept on his side of the twin's bedroom. There, Clay has fabricated crystal radios, erector-set robots and repaired more than one household appliance.

Hunter's interests run toward the arts. A tremendous artist, he spends every spare minute working on a graphic novel he outlined and wrote. Each panel flows easily into the next as his hero, a beaten down boy learns about his amazing, as yet hidden, powers. Hunter's drawings of his wide-eyed moppet protagonist, remind me of the irascible Brian Coopersmith, after whom Cooper is named. The same Brian Coopersmith for whom the tree and bench in the middle of memory grotto is named. We call it "Brian's Tree"; campers and staff alike, go there to sit and reflect when they need a moment away from the bustle of camp.

Sadly it's true, our dear Brian is gone. Not in a grisly helicopter crash such as that which killed Peter Gilbert, or in an alcoholic stupor the way Eddie Parnell left us. Brian's ending was one of the saddest chapters it has ever been my honor to endure in this short life. It is a story for another day, if I can ever bring myself to tell it. I am grateful that my boys knew him and when the mood strikes me, I'll often regale them of tales of the sweet boy who lit up our lives every summer and Christmas at the lake.

I may go and visit with him in the grotto today, maybe after lunch.

Finally, our newest addition totters over, still dressed in his footy pajamas. Fletcher is carrying his favorite board book, one corner of which has been gnawed to soft, colorless gristle. His unruly mop of blonde hair points every which way, reminding me that I need to take him to the barber soon. Fletch entered the world, falling limply from his dying mother, thrust into my waiting hands while her obstetrician tried desperately to save her. My neonate team and I worked on him for several hours before he stabilized, finally turning from dusky blue to a hale and hearty pink, with a lusty cry. When he was well enough to be discharged, Neal and I took him into our home. We had not planned on adopting another child, but once little Fletch came to us, we could never have given him up.

I guess I forgot to mention that I am a doctor; is that terribly surprising? When Neal and I volunteered together for the Navy, our respective paths diverged dramatically. I took advantage of the terrific medical training offered, while Neal's schooling took him to running reactor plants of ocean going vessels, which shall remain unnamed. We both re-enlisted once, and then after the Gulf War, both ended up assigned to the Support base in Saratoga Springs where Neal served as an instructor for the training reactor, while I watched over the general health of the staff and family members in the medical clinic.

My medical specialty started out in neonatology, yes the Navy does have neonatologists, but has lately shifted to general pediatrics. After the local pediatrician moved away, I took over her practice and moved it to a purpose-built cabin on the outskirts of the camp. This building serves as the health center and main office for Camp Laurelwood, allowing me to stick close to home and the kids. Frankly, I am grateful for the more subdued pace of private practice, now that I'm a little older. The campers refer to me as "Doc Barrett", or mostly, just "Doc".

After leaving active service with the Navy, Neal returned to school to get his JD. He maintains a small law office in town, in a comely little colonial cottage near the center green. An unpretentious sign hangs out front that reads, "Neal Farrell, Esq., Attorney at Law". He enjoys keeping up with the locals' needs for "torts and wills and probate, oh my!" as he likes to joke. His father Ned, with whom he reconciled a few years after passing the Bar, lives locally too, having retired to the region to be closer to his only son.

Terry still lives on the grounds, keeping my mother company in the cabin I grew up in. They'll be moving to a new cabin we're building just for them, single level, no stairs to climb. Once they're moved in to the new home, we'll renovate the old place, and make it ready for renting to guests. The older cabins, with their sturdy log construction, tall, stone fireplaces and lofts, are always popular and never lay fallow during the busy, second half of the summer, after the camp program has culminated.

Fletcher climbs into Neal's lap, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He likes to take off Neal's glasses and put them on, the lenses making his eyes look even larger and more owlish than they already are.

"How about we wander on down for some breakfast for everyone?" says Neal. There is general agreement as Cooper swoops in and carries the protesting, giggling Fletcher off with him. As my family files down the stairs, towards the Lodge to eat with the campers, I pause once more to breathe in the morning air, gaze out over the property, and look at the water glittering on lake.

To be sure, I couldn't be any happier.

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