We were almost home. I had already caught glimpses of the cabin across the water—its leaning screened-in porch, the soft, sloping lawn. But my nine-year-old son, Josh, wanted me to stop anyway. “We should buy some blueberries,” he said, meaning from one of the many stands set up along the eastern shore of the lake this time of year. “Or apples, what about apples?” Didn’t I think apples were a good idea? “Maybe David will make a pie,” he said. “Isn’t that a good plan?” He looked at me expectantly, as if I should congratulate him for his insight into the day¹s ripe possibilities. He cocked his head neatly to one side and grinned.