This is what I remember:

Bedtime at eight, though the sun remained in the sky for another hour, casting an orange glow over the rippling lake. Mom propped on one elbow, head resting on palm, while the other hand cradled Swiss Family Robinson. Bedtime stories by the light of summer dusk.

Summer sleep always unfolded on this porch, in a high bed that felt enormous. In my mind the bed was a raft, heaped with blankets, pillows, and afloat at sea. Perhaps this is why we started reading Swiss Family Robinson.

“For many days, we have been tempest-tossed,” Mom begins.

One sentence into chapter one, and I interject: “What’s ‘tempest-tossed, Mama?”

“What’s ‘tempest-tossed’? What’s ‘tempest-tossed’?!” (feigned shock). At once she grabs me with one arm, pulls me sharply against her soft body, then pushes me away. Then repeats, several times. “Whoooooosh whooosh,” she blows simultaneously, chaotically. “This is ‘tempest-tossed’! Do you feel it?”

I gasp to respond through my giggles, but it’s no use. The demonstration continues. Mom now lies on her back, holding me above her torso in a jostling version of ‘airplane ride’. My legs dangle on either side of her body, holding my balance as she whips me from side to side. I’m laughing so hard that I struggle for breath. She releases me and after a moment continues reading.

Fifteen feet away, water lap-laps against the shore, at the point where the dusty, pine needle covered ground slopes below the lake’s surface. Once, during a spring flood, the water rose to meet the base of the porch. This I do not remember except that my mom tells me it is so.

My hair is still sweet and damp after an obligatory shower (met with great protest) following that evening’s game of Swamp Orphans. When Mom rang the cowbell, summoning me for dinner (hot dogs, the only food I would willingly eat that summer), I arrived on the front steps covered in mud, twigs lodged in my hair. Mom made me dump the muck from my sneakers and remove my wet, blackened socks before entering the house.

Now, nestled in a big bed, on a porch surrounded by trees, water, and more trees, I listen as the night comes alive. Piney limbs groan and murmur to the wind (in winter it is the ice that makes these sounds, but louder, cracks echoing across the lake), and bullfrogs sing a guttural tune. A warm breeze embraces me. My breath softens in time with the woods as I sink deep into a dream world.

If this were every childhood, who would grow up to make war?