Editor’s Note: Jane Juska is the author of A Round-Heeled Woman and Unaccompanied Women.

It’s summertime – time for family reunions, time to see how much weight the women have gained over the past year and how much the men drink. It’s a fun time: hot sweaty women in the kitchen, tipsy men fly casting into each other, children who sink and rise to scream, "Teach me, Grandma!" resound from the dock where five-year-olds push the four-year-olds off into the cool, clear water just below.

This year I am ten pounds thinner than last, which means that my bathing suit, purchased last year amid much sturm und drang, sags. I don’t care though because my sister is ten pounds fatter and wears a new suit she hates, so we are even … sort of. Our daughters and daughters-in-law remain beautiful, our sons sober, our grandchildren beyond compare.

Some things do not change; this lake is one of them. I am not going to tell you its name or where it is because it is close to perfect, unpeopled much of the week, silent boats secured by buoys lapped by gentle waves. Come Friday afternoon, weekend vacationers, armed with air pumps and soon-to-be-inflated rafts, donuts, discs, kayaks, trampolines appear seemingly out of thin air and the lake is alive with the sound of pumping. Occasionally, a Jet Ski screams across the water. Those of us onshore wish it would sink, along with the cowboy riding it, likewise the slow-moving inboard where youths play their insufferable music at decibels injurious to the human ear. But for the most part, our lake is tranquil and beautiful. It reflects the snow-capped mountain in the distance. Don’t come here. We’ll send you a postcard.


Image: Mary Juska

Another thing that does not change is the yearly performance of water ballet, performed on the next-to-last day of our summer by only the women of the family. We put on our show for the small audience of men and children who applaud from the dock. It is a thing of beauty.

My sister refers to herself as Camp Director – as do the rest of us – ordering kids in and out of the water, adults and children to get up on those skis, me to make potato salad, everybody to pick up their wet suits and hang them on the line. She did this when she was 15; at 68 she hasn’t changed a bit. I have, though. At 76 I announce that this year I will make potato salad – I do it so well – but I will skip the water ballet. This year I will sit on the porch in my web-backed chair and enjoy the performance from afar.

Right.

Not one person accepts my decision – certainly not my sister, who is, of course, the director of the water ballet. Neither does my niece who, at 44, has become an ardent fan of family tradition. "Please, Aunt Jane, you just have to. It wouldn’t be right if you didn’t." Nor does my granddaughter, age six. "You can do it, Grandma. It doesn’t matter if you’re old." OK, fine. I’ll go. If only to stop the pestering.


Jane Juska and Maude/Image: Mary Juska

The membership of our ballet troupe has changed over the years: Our brothers died and their wives, once rising stars, receded into new lives; one of our sons has brought his new wife into the fold. My sister and I – the two constants in the ever-changing ensemble cast – are not at all sure how things will go this time. We’re not even sure our bathing suits will stay on. But onward.