They’re all in, busy settling where they will sleep and shower and have that first cup of coffee or smoothie. We all fit in my little place down the road from Stonecroft for our traditional first-night-in tacos and Rhubarb Apple Crumb Pie. More chairs out on the little front patio than I imagined possible. The rest inside on couches and at the table. The first thing every carload wanted to do after hugging Gramma was to walk down and see the project.

Now the point’s been mowed, the last tent set up, paddle boards floated, barbecue fired up. The old stories and laughter so loud the second night after supper, front door wide open, that I worry my neighbors might call the property manager. I remind these 50-plus-year-old kids that “it still hasn’t been long enough” to hear anything I haven’t already heard. That never stops them with a rapt audience. They’d be disappointed if I didn’t add my familiar, “I wasted my life” after a particularly wild story. This morning we wake to gray and a light rain…our beautiful mountain summer cool. Somebody’s doing an intake interview for a graduate program in a quiet spot on the front porch, others checking in with work or planning tonight’s menu . . .

The last car drove out early this morning heading south along the lake to Polson for breakfast at McDonald’s, then Missoula, Lolo, and into the deep woods along the rivers to Boise. Just about everywhere is south of here.

There’s a message from my neighbor when I get back inside after waving them off. “I have fresh-baked rolls…” We meet halfway in the road, me in pajamas and sweatshirt. She bakes Grandma Edna’s and Aunt Anna Lou’s cinnamon rolls more often than I do. Pretty tough life I have!

I brew coffee, sit with the quiet. But it’s not sadness I feel with the empty house, or loneliness, but simply gratitude. You don’t know way back when they’re littles with not even a minute for yourself in the bathroom . . . or when they’re teens and you’re praying them through, praying you get this right . . . or young adults lifting on wings away from you . . . that it’s not over. You don’t know they’ll still come back, still want to be with you, still need you and that you’ll need them. Being with them always reminds me who I am, fills me up, restores me. Ah yes, this. The power of family. The sheer gift of it all. My heart is full. And Thomas finally got his fresh raspberry pie!