I’m not proud to admit that I managed, somehow, to escape with only the single initial sting, while everybody else wailed in pain around me. Naturally, of course, I was the only one to have stepped on a bee, which is a lot like accidentally shooting off your foot with a rifle. But I couldn’t let on that I’d caused this whole mess and made off with only a single wound, so I writhed alongside everybody else.

Still, I remain convinced that there were at least twelve other things to blame before me, including the snake, the cousin who spotted the snake, Winnie the Pooh, and most of all, the cottage itself, which I continue to believe is cursed.

•  •  •

The trips to Michigan continued year after year, my family’s enthusiasm undisturbed by mass bee attacks, poop rivers, and ongoing feuds. And the curse showed no signs of relenting either.

Two summers after the bee attack, when our wounds finally showed signs of healing, I went to the cottage with my aunt, uncle, and cousins a night early. My parents and brother were driving up the next morning, but I begged and pleaded to hitch a ride the night before, reminding my mother that without me in the car, she could fill my seat with another twenty, maybe even thirty, dinners, plus any number of extra breads, fruit platters, wrapped pies, and brownie trays, and I just couldn’t imagine us surviving the week with anything less. Of course, she relented, if only to get me to stop listing foods, and let me go.

I felt guilty that night, once we arrived, to have the entire bedroom to myself. I could sleep in the real bed instead of an air mattress, and snore as loud as I wanted without retribution, and in the morning, I could wake up and eat breakfast and be outside to swim long before my family would arrive.

There were moments when I loved going to Michigan, and this was one of them. Besides everything that was wrong with it, the cottage could still be a fun place to be. It may not have been Disneyland, but it was better than nothing, and I made the most of it when I could.