I have a new moniker for Steve L., one of my four brother-in-laws with the same first name. Now he’s Ramp Man to me. He drove to the Cape from Connecticut fully loaded: Boston Whaler packed with bikes, folding tables, life jackets, power tools, and reclining chairs towed in the back; bag after bag of beach clothes and kitchen essentials—including a paella pan, two good knives, and a garlic press—stuffed into the family van. Somehow he managed to make and bring a ramp to help access the house we rented in Orleans.

It’s an annual vacation my sister, Cynthia, insists upon. Her two daughters have come to expect it, too. This year, my parents joined us from their retirement community outside Boston. My sister, Alison, her Steve, and their two daughters are somewhat local, as their other grandmother retired to Cape Cod a decade ago. I count on them to know tide tables and traffic patterns and weather trends. The things we love have become traditions. I anticipate sunrise beach visits to the seals off Coast Guard, boat rides out to the break, muffin runs to Cottage Bakery, swims at Pilgrim Lake and Nauset, messy but wonderful lobster bakes, dramatic sunsets on the Bay side at Skaket. Now that my four nieces are older, we’ve added Carnivale in Provincetown, mini golf tournaments, and at least one summer stock production. Barriers prevent my options, but I can still appreciate a good view.

Leslie and I were the first to arrive, heading straight from an overnight Seattle flight to the farmers market in Orleans. I rented a car with hand controls, always a risky proposition. I fought to get the necessary spinner knob, but I failed to find a hatchback and was forced to make due with the generic American four-door sedan. It meant I had to break down my wheelchair for storage each and every time. (By I, I usually mean Leslie.) Leslie tells me that following a process can forestall anger. “Consider it part of our system. No use getting apoplectic every time at every thing.” We made it to the market just before closing and bought fresh pasta, local cheese, and home-made sausage. Judy at Lake Farm Gardens insisted we taste each variety of her heirloom tomatoes. We took what she had left. A bearded guitarist played a medley of James Taylor songs nearby. “Shower the people you love with love. Show them the way that you feel. Things are gonna work out fine if you only will.”

The driveway down to the house was part goat-track, part motor-cross route. I counted the ten steps up to the house. We skirted the property to the left and slalomed our way up the hill. And then there it was. Scrub pine and sea oats and eel grass and blue water and gentle waves and small islands and that barrier beach out in the distance. I imagined eating all my meals outside. A seat under the two cedars would work just fine. Leslie opened the house, started up all the fans, and we got to work in the kitchen. The first wave of family arrived. By dinner, the ramp was in place. I could zoom out to the back lawn to catch the Perseids.

Some years, it feels too much for me. We all start the search process hopeful for that elusive, optimal property with fewer steps and wider doorways and better bathrooms and easier water access. “Isn’t there a website?” my father asked at breakfast after a bad night. “Shouldn’t there be one centralized resource?” There isn’t, but there should be. That’s an answer I find myself repeating. He’s using a cane himself now and caring for my mother who needs a wheelchair assist. I distracted him with sports scores, and we bantered about baseball. The breeze kept the bugs away. Sailboats vied for position on Pleasant Bay. I reminded myself that the effort, though considerable, is worth it.

During the next seven days, Ramp Man made improvements to the kitchen entryway. My sisters and nieces helped me and my mother negotiate the trickier bits of vacationing. We stormed the cramped kitchen for boisterous meal prep. Groups peeled off for kayaking and swimming and shopping, returning with ice cream and sun burns and highlights. We wore our finest for my parents’ 60^th wedding anniversary. (I read that only 5% of all couples hit this mark, and, of those, I surmised, only 1% are happy, putting my parents in an elite bracket, as I said in my toast.) We all got misty-eyed when my father recounted how smitten he was upon first seeing Shirley. One afternoon, my mother and I got stuck on the porch for a few hours, but no matter. The weather was right. What place better? I wanted more time to talk to my nieces about upcoming college adventures. I wanted more time at the communal dinner table watching the moon rise. I wanted more time passing wine and comparing recipes for swordfish. I wanted more time.

Leslie and I weren’t quite sure where we’d spend the night before our early flight back to Seattle. An anonymous hotel seemed like a bummer of a way to leave. Boston-based Alison offered her place outside the city. Necessity being the mother, she rigged up a makeshift entrance to her house. She used two long folding tables and blocks to ramp the outside steps to the screened porch. A neighbor came and built a ramp that almost fit the drop down into the back bedroom. Al’s goal was to get me into and out of her house without leaving my chair. Mission accomplished. She was so solicitous through out the process that I wanted to cry. “It’s not enough, I know, and I’m sorry,” she said.

These earnest efforts did the most to decrease my discomfort. It’s a showering of love. Didn’t I just tell myself that?