Cottage Daze (12 page)

Word games are played, tall tales are told, and many songs are sung. Everyone, young and old, joins in. Grandpa often pulls his harmonica out of his pocket and plays requests. I remember guiding horse trips when I was young and carefree, week-long pack trips through Banff, in Alberta's Rocky Mountains. It's just what a young man did for work with a journalism degree in his pocket. Each evening the group would gather around the fire pit to share stories. The cook would pull out his steel-string guitar and sing all the classic cowboy tunes, his ballads and yodelling echoing off the surrounding mountain peaks, many miles from civilization. Sometimes a guest would pull out a harmonica and play along, and I would immediately long for our cottage. (Well, I'd miss my dad, too.)

Campfire traditions have been handed down — some we are not sure how they started. “I hate white rabbits,” we will say when the smoke blows our way and stings our eyes. I don't know why, it is just something that is said. Imagine when we had some friends from Switzerland visit the cottage recently. Our kids are exclaiming that they hate this particular colour of rabbit. The Swiss friends look puzzled, but remain too polite to ask why we are rabbit racists with this peculiar bunny bias. When I tell them why it is said, they state matter-of-factly, “And this works? Why not just sit upwind from the fire?”

Not just at the cottage but living in cottage country, the bonfire becomes a part of many social gatherings. We recently got together with kids and parents at a wrap-up soccer party for our youngest daughter's team, at the coach's home. The lush grass in his backyard rose to a rocky knoll, with a central hollow making the perfect fire pit. Youngsters and adults enjoyed some pizza and some games, and then we gravitated to the roaring fire. The coach entertained with a guitar, and we talked with other parents that we barely knew. Standing around the evening fire encourages this.

At New Year's we gather at another friends house for an energetic shinny match on his large outdoor rink, and then warm ourselves at midnight with a glass of champagne, while standing around the roaring bonfire that burns its own deep pit in the snow and ice. How Canadian is that?

Driftwood fires on the point, where we sing, laugh, roast marshmallows, and tell ghost stories.

The bonfire inevitably brings about the feeling of togetherness and warmth. It is a great part of cottage life, sitting around the evening fire, telling the kids a ghost story before bed. The flames dance across the white rock and reflect off the shimmering lake waters. The sudden wail of a loon pierces the night, causing even the storyteller to jump. As the flames die down to glowing coals, we look up into the brilliant canopy of twinkling light searching for falling stars. Then we douse the flames and make our way back along the trail to the cottage.

That '70s Show

My parents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary this past May. Fifty years together, imagine that. They were married in 1957 when Leave It to Beaver was the most popular show on television and “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation” topped the music charts. It had been a double wedding, shared with my mother's twin brother and his wife, so now it was a double fiftieth anniversary celebration. We had a party for them, as all good kids would do. We rented a hall and invited the extended family.

We pulled out the old photos, and my sister put together a slide show presentation. With modern, PowerPoint technology, the photos faded in and out on the screen, showing the lives of my parents from their childhood days to meeting, courting, marriage, children, and then grandchildren. A musical score accompanied the presentation. It was nostalgic, heartwarming, and, at times, comical.

The early cottage days were well represented, as our cottage time was and will always be a big part of our lives. It was the summer of 1974, and my folks were paddling around the small islands in the west arm of a beautiful, pristine lake when they happened upon a hand-drawn sign: “For Sale.” The “S” was actually a painted, hissing rattlesnake. They stopped in, walked the island, toured the log cabin, and fell in love with the place. The photos Dad took that day were now part of the presentation, and began a series of images that recall our fun cottage days.

There were photos of my siblings and of me doing what my kids are doing now, hanging out with friends on the dock or cottage porch, water-skiing, swimming, and canoeing. Throughout the 1970s, our family would join our cousins on an annual week-long canoe trip. Here was shared fun, hardship, and camaraderie. I was glad my own children were watching these old photos, appreciating what we had done as a family and recognizing in our canoe trips the important family values that could be learned — those that stay with you for life. I felt that they would be impressed with how tough and adventurous their dad and grandparents were.

Apparently not.

“You used to have a mullet,” my son says accusingly. I cringe at the photo that shows the shaggy hair that falls down my shoulders from underneath a flat-top leather hat.

“Nice pants, Dad,” chastises my oldest daughter. “Geeky!”

“They were the style back then.” I try to defend myself, although I realize I am fighting a losing battle — she is right. Here is a photo of me carrying the canoe with these bell-bottom jeans on. The pants seem inappropriately tight through the midsection, so much so that it is a wonder I ever had kids myself. Then the legs sweep out in a wide bell shape that hides my entire feet — I could have been wearing high heels for all you could tell … I wasn't!

“At least Grandpa was cool,” the children point out as they see a photo of my dad carrying a big canvas pack, decked out in peg leg pants, a checkered shirt, hair slicked back, and sleek dark shades, “at one time.”

A photo of Grandma in a 70s-style bikini gets exclamations of appreciation. Not so, Grandpa in his Speedo on swim rock. Now it is he who is trying to defend himself. “It was the style — better than the baggy, oversized shorts you kids swim in today.” Sorry, Dad, but no.

Then there is a photo of my mom's twin, Uncle John. A nice, tranquil, mood-driven canoe trip shot — he is having an early morning coffee by the open fire as mist rises from a lake. My children begin to heckle his checkered, polyester pants, but here I shut them down and tell them not to be rude. I mean, fun is fun, but this hits a little too close to home. I think he still wears them on the golf course.

It Is a Dog's Life

Timba hates when the children are in the water. When she hears a splash, she responds immediately. It does not matter whether she is dead asleep, curled nose under tail beneath the big pine, when the kids venture onto swim rock Timba comes running. She paces back and forth, trying to coax them to dry land.

Huskies are not keen water dogs, not like retrievers or collies. They are made for the cold and snow, a time when getting wet is not a great idea. Swimming to a husky is an act of folly. When the children return to shore Timba greets them with a face wash. She attempts to reason with them. When everyone is out of the lake and towelling themselves dry, Timba returns to her pine.

Charlie is a hound, a big, sad-eyed, wrinkly-faced, drooling bloodhound. He accompanies my sister's family when they visit. Charlie is in love with Timba and her blue eyes, so he tries to impress her by howling in her face. He corners her, and with his jowls quivering inches away, he howls. “Barooo, barooo, barooo!” Timba squints her eyes and lays her ears back, not totally enamoured with this crinkly, foul-breathed Casanova. Charlie doesn't listen much. He hears “No, Charlie” a thousand times in a day. You could be saying, “It's a fine day today, Charlie” for all he cares. Still, he is cute, in a very ugly sort of way.

My dad recently got a fancy new slide scanner, and he has been going through a half-century of family photos and putting them on disks that we can view on his television. As much of that family time has been spent at the cottage, many of the pictures are of us spending time on the island, slowly growing up. Through the thirty-three years of our cottage time, dogs have always appeared in the photos.

When my parents bought the place there was Bismarck, a short-legged, long-eared basset hound who trotted around the island paths going nowhere fast. His nose was too good for us kids in a game of hide-and-seek. When we went canoeing, he would sit dolefully in the middle of the canoe with his ample chops resting on the gunnels. When we ventured to the cabin in winter, he had to hop through the drifts on short legs. My brother and I would wince as he dragged his dangling parts through the crusty March snow, and then we would wince again as we watched him thaw himself by the fire.

My uncle John and his family would join us at the cottage with Toulouse, Bismarck's brother — and then, for a reason I can only put down to a mid-life crisis, after Toulouse passed on, in came Shawnee Marie, a prim and lanky Afghan. Uncle John would stand on the dock with a morning coffee, his hair messed, unshaven, dishevelled, with this groomed princess sitting prissily at his feet.

Two more bassets, Spencer (my parents') and Fred (my sister's), visited the cottage for a while. They hated each other, and would roll around in a fur flying fit of fury whenever they met. When Fred came in the front door of the cabin, Spencer was shuffled out the back.

For many, dogs are a big part of their cottage days, adding to the wonderful spirit of the place.

Duke was a springer spaniel who was half loon. He would dive for rocks that were four feet deep on the lake bottom, and then build little rock cairns around the island. You could toss a rock into the boulder-strewn shallows in the bay, and he would dive in, stick his head under the water, and return with the same stone. Then there was Matty, a sweet and pretty Australian shepherd–border collie cross. My sister had gotten it right with this one. Matty would stay to the outside of the circle of children, shepherding them, whether they were playing in the forest or swimming in the lake. She would paddle around the bay for hours, always protecting, always smiling.

When I wrote the column about the death of a family dog earlier this summer, I got more feedback than for any other story, all with anecdotes of the readers' own beloved canines. One family had a wooden cross in the ground at their summer retreat, on which they hung the collars of the dogs that had graced their cottage lives. When they sold their cottage and bought a new one, the cross moved with them.

For many families, dogs are big part of their cottage days, adding to the wonderful spirit of the place. The only mistake in their makeup is that their lifespan is much too short. Any other shortcomings they may have are of our own doing.

Cottage Renovations

Cottage renovations are a tricky business, dependant upon such things as the remoteness of the location, access, and the ability to bring in contractors. Scheduling an electrician or plumber might delay a project for a couple of summers. Trying to get the fabulous interior design specialists John and Jon in for a consultation is impossible during blackfly season. Ultimately, having the skills of a handyman can be an essential part of being a cottage owner. Unfortunately, these skills have avoided me, but I do have talented family and friends, and I am not averse to inviting them to the cottage for a weekend's relaxation.

Our log cabin cottage was built in 1924 by a logger, purportedly for his young mistress. Two things came out of this history. Firstly, the log construction of the cottage is beautiful, with huge hand-hewn timber harvested locally. Secondly, though the logger's mistress must have had certain attributes that pleased him enough to build this humble but magnificent cabin on a remote rocky island for her, lofty stature was not one of them. The kitchen counters and sink were seemingly constructed for someone who might have helped send Dorothy off down the yellow brick road.

For a time I was able to use the cabinetry's short dimensions to advantage. When my wife would ask for my help with the evening dishes, I would pitch in for a few brief seconds and then wince in agony, grit my teeth, and grimace in extreme pain, grabbing for my lower back. My darling spouse would help me to the front porch chair, all the while apologizing for being so thoughtless, for she knew I suffered from chronic back pain. She would make sure I was comfortable, offer me an after-dinner medicinal aperitif, and then return to her solitary chore.