Barbara Johnson spends every August hosting her grown up son’s family, a team of ungrateful humans of varying size and shape who run wild throughout her small home on the quiet side of Lake Tulsley.

The thing that was the hardest to give up was the privacy. The washing of her underpants with those of her grandchildren because by god if she washed all the laundry by guest, she’d never get anything else done. The sleeping with her bedroom door open because of the heat and with the possibility of any one of them walking past, pausing perhaps, to stare in at her snoring into the night.