Wake up early. Still dark outside. It is 30-odd degrees on Lake Martin and I can’t feel my unmentionables.

The 1940s cabin is poorly insulated. You could store Ben & Jerry’s products in the living room.

I make coffee. Sit on the couch, wedging myself between sleeping dogs. I warm my frozen hands by touching the tender canine flesh of their warm underbellies. The dogs all give me disgusted looks when they feel my icy hands groping them.

My sister wakes up. She tiptoes into the living room. Hair askew. Wearing PJs. We sit together, drinking coffee. And just for a moment I’m 14 years old again, as we talk of olden times.

My wife awakes. The dogs all spring off the couch when they hear my wife’s footsteps in the hall, performing deep yoga stretches to celebrate her arrival. They do not do this for me.

Next, the rest of my sister’s crew is awake. Little girls in pajamas are rushing in and out of the kitchen, singing and playing, crying and tattling, laughing and shouting. Dogs are chasing them. And I’m wondering if it’s too early to start drinking.

My wife looks at me and laughs. She says, “Mazel tov!” for some reason. Even though we are not Jewish.

The cooking marathon commences. My wife and my sister have been preparing food for days. My wife operates her kitchen like the captain of a German U-boat. Her cool glare toward all males who enter her ship’s cockpit is frightening.

So, I become invisible.

I don a canvas jacket, and wander outside. I am preparing the cabin’s exterior for the upcoming onslaught at noon. I rake the yard, leaf-blow the driveway, and chase one runaway bloodhound across nearly a mile of gravel roads.

Next, I build a fire in the firepit. I am the male of my family. I am the bringer of fire. I continually walk around the fire pit, adjusting logs, as though I am actually doing work.

Then. Operation Overlord begins. The full-scale family invasion begins with a cavalcade of SUVs entering the driveway. The doors open. Family and friends exit vehicles en masse.

Adults hug in the driveway. Kids leap out of vehicles and make no introductions with their childhood counterparts, they just start running.

I carry foil-covered casseroles and pies, family heirloom platters, and extra china. The kitchen looks like ground-zero of a national Corningware convention disaster. My wife sees me enter the kitchen. She sees me eyeing the brownies.

“Can I help you?” my wife says in a calm voice, so weighted with threatening undertones that my flesh puckers.

I subsequently disappear.

Time to eat.

Fold-up card tables are situated on the screened porch, adorned with china and flowers. There is so much food it hurts. The oldest male extinguishes his cigar, removes his hat, then prays aloud.

“Thank you for family…” his prayer begins.

Then we all eat until we have no choice but to unbutton our pants.

After the meal, dishes are cleared. Washed by hand. Dried by males. Then, everyone convenes by the fire pit once more. My brother-in-law has now brought out a guitar. I am playing a fiddle. The kids are dancing on the deck. Their footsteps can be heard for miles across the lake.

I teach the children square-dance figures. I am calling figures as we play. My wife and sister join the dancing party. Soon a few more join the dancing.

“Circle left!” I shout. “Now promenade!”

Before long, everyone is dancing figures as we play “Martha Campbell,” and “Soldier’s Joy.” My wife begins clogging. Her feet stamping on the deck, somehow managing not to spill her beer.

People cheer. I cheer. I cannot remember having so much fun with my clothes on.

When the party is over, the SUVs leave the driveway. Just as quickly as they arrived, the vehicles are gone. Tail lights blinking into the darkness.

My wife and I crawl into a warm bed. The smell of woodsmoke is in our hair and clothes. I kiss my wife goodnight. She asks, “Are you thankful?”

“Mazel tov,” I say.