The Sun Cove Chronicles: From Unhinged to Unplugged

A week ago I was sitting in my office in front of my dual screen monitor working on an SEC compliance project while simultaneously monitoring the email action from one client on a laptop that was connected to their internal network, and using a second laptop to link into another client's servers to gather info for the compliance audit.  I had my iPad propped up to Skype chat with Bob on and off during the day, and my phone was also close by to easily check my company email and frequent IMs  from friends and family.  

I am a very social person and I love the internet, so as I prepared for my first trip to Sun Cove Resort in Eastern Washington State, just below the Canadian border, I was apprehensive about being out of contact for five days.  No cell phone coverage, I was told.  Wireless internet available only at the resort store, if you could get the owners to give you the password.  Jack had obtained the password years before and his phone had stored and used it, but he was unable to determine what the actual password was to give to me, so I had to ask.  The owners, Brian and Gail, told me that yes, they did now have wireless Internet, got it just this year. It was a hard decision to offer it, they said, because Sun Cove is the kind of old fashioned place where kids should spend their time jumping from the boat dock, swimming in the lake, and playing checkers on the patio, not huddled over their cell phones playing the latest shooter game.  I kind of liked that approach, except when it comes to me.  I was special (yeah - special ed my kids would always say). I wanted internet in my room so I could spend lazy days working, surfing, and chatting.  Not only did this place not offer that, there were not even any televisions or telephones that I could see.

Brian and Gail are the kind of friendly down home people you expect to see at a place like this.  But they do have their idiosynchrosies.  Like our room assignments.  There is a three bedroom cabin that Paula, Hans and I wanted to rent, from Monday to Monday.  "Sorry, we only rent from Saturday to Saturday."  No matter that the family has been coming here for twenty years and at least for the last ten, no one has ever been renting the house before. No amount of pleading or bribing could get them to change their minds. Rules are rules, and at Sun Cove, they are apparently not meant to be broken.  As a result, our party purveyed four rooms in the ten room main building.  Paula and Hans, Dad and Larysa, and Jack had rooms 1, 2, and 3.  I had room 9.  When I checked in, Brian said rooms are allocated based upon when you call and reserve.  It didn't matter that all the rooms were identical or that the other guests were arriving after I checked in - my name was written in the blotter next to #9 so that was the room I was slated for.  To change the system would just invite trouble.

1960's kitchen - with lemon cake and fresh foccaccia bread

The resort was a throwback to the early sixties, with the only major improvements appearing to be new wood-like floors and mattresses.  The coordinated turquoise Hotpoint refrigerator and electric range went well with the four person dinette set and classic ceramic dishware complete with coordinated, thick and heavy 4 oz coffee mugs, white with turquoise diamond patterns. The walls had a log cabin-style wood paneling in warm tones and the light switches were heavy and made an old fashioned loud click when you turned them on and off.  The closet emitted a slightly musty smell that reminded me of my Grandma Emma's house. The room was charming without being cheesy, old but welcoming.  It had a door on either end, and the back entrance had a screen door which opened to a covered walkway connecting all the rooms.  The screen door invited company to walk past and stop in for a chat.  This is how I met Carol, Barbara, Ted and Mike, who sat in their lawn chairs in the walkway each afternoon, sipping margaritas and watching the sun set over Lake Wannacutt.  

After a couple of days I stopped carrying around my cellphone as I walked about in futile attempts to find a signal. The phone's once urgent purpose was replaced by its mere use as a camera to record deer and sunsets.  Every time I set out from Room 9 for the for the store to use the internet, walking down the corridor past all the other rooms with their open screen doors and back porch benches, I'd meet someone and start talking and forget that I had to make a Facebook post or check some email.  After a shared glass of wine and conversations ranging from college to kitchen remodels, nothing else seemed all that important.  And somehow, my assignment to Room 9 made sense.