Clothing Supplies
blue suit
black suit
yellow rain gear
sweats and jeans
windbreaker
socks, underwear
swimming gear
2 cotton sundresses
old black sweater
plaid bush shirt
several T-shirts
one snazzy outfit
slippers, runners, bush boots, sandals, beige pumps, black pumps
Miscellaneous
health food store mosquito dope
make sure S.B.’s rabies shot still good re: U.S. border crossing
dry clean sleeping bag
hold mail May 15-July 15
pay Corey to mow lawn l/week
call Terry, Mike, Hope, Faith, George, Dr. Swanson
binoculars
kayak & gear
extra windshield fluid
vitamins
2 bottles of Chardonnay, 1 Irish Mist
10 bottles of no-name mineral water (large)
check condition of plates, bowls, etc. take the good pots & pans
S.B.’s travel bowls, leash, long line, basket, kitty litter
There! I always feel better after a good stint of list-making. As long as I can tick off my lists, I have the most comforting illusion that everything is under control. I’ll have enough food to eat a monotonous but nourishing diet even if a bridge on the highway washes out and I have to wait for a crew to replace it. I’ll buy fresh veggies and fruit en route and, I hope, some salmon and halibut.
Now I’ll tempt the Fates and run a nice bath with my special no-cruelty-to-little-bunny-eyes bath oil. Better put some nice bath and shower stuff on the list too. Nothing like a bit of pampering in a motel bathtub after a long stretch of driving and camping.
I’m just drifting off to sleep when I remember the rhododendron painting bee. I sit up straight. Will I delay my most lucrative and exciting freelance assignment to host the Rosemont Painting Club? Will the rhododendrons appear in good time and spare me the stress of making this decision? Will a spell of hot spring weather solve all my problems? We’ll have to see. It’s not on my list. Not to worry. There’s not a thing I can do about it. Good night.
good night little worr y wart
?...
Five
I wake up from a long, dreamless sleep and start coffee proceedings in my tiny perfect kitchen. Sun splashes over the peach and ivory walls and cupboards I painted in February. The new day out there looks glorious, not a cloud in the sky. My nose appreciates the spring perfume of cottonwood buds.
I remember fretting about the rhododendrons last night and feel reassured. If this weather keeps up, I’ll phone the Rosemont Painters tomorrow to give them a week’s notice. There are already flashes of colour in the wall of green over there.
The dense stand of cottonwoods and spruce immediately behind the two-metre-high rhododendrons continues for a quarter of a mile along the lake, giving this cottage the ultimate in privacy. Towering red sandstone cliffs immediately to the south are unbuildable terrain and they force the highway well back, muffling the sound of traffic. My cream-coloured cottage with chocolate-brown trim and cedar shake roof nestles between the cliffs and the trees on its own red sand beach. The floating boathouse is painted to match the cottage.
One of the moral obligations of Aunt Ginger’s will was that the property remain intact. No subdivision into a row of monster houses crammed side by side, each with twenty metres of waterfront. Fine by me. The compromise we reached before her death was that my sisters and brother, Faith, Hope and Justice, could build their own guest cabins among the trees.
This is a family project we look forward to. In fact, Faith and her husband, Thomas, and the kids are coming this July. Oh no, I’ll be away! I’ll phone them today; they’re on my list. They can just take over this cottage. That’s fine. And we’ll visit in the last half of July while I pound out the Alaska Highway articles. Oh dear. I can’t work with a bunch of people around. No, I’ve got to have it to myself for the writing. The polishing up, nips-and-tucks stage of it. Oh dear, what to do? I am counting on holing up in a motel somewhere in the Yukon and doing most of the work while it’s still fresh in my mind. I can verify my research reasonably quickly and cheaply, too. Cut down on the long-distance calls. Yes, I’ll find a nice motel beside a little river and just go at it.
I stand on the deck with my one permitted morning coffee and look at the lake, which is in its Silvery Blue Mirror state. There’s no such thing as a bad day beside this lake. Even the storms, especially the storms, are wonderful to watch from inside a cozy house. I’ll be seeing lots of new lakes in the north. I look forward to getting my kayak on as many of them as possible. But now I have to make my phone calls, write my notes, go into town. May as well buy my non-perishable supplies and get the van booked into the garage.
The hot springs article payment will certainly come in handy for new tires and some of the other necessities. I will definitely need to dip into what’s left of my savings to front the money for the rest of my transportation and supplies. No! I’m going to ask the magazine to advance me a couple of thousand dollars. Surely I’m credible enough for them to risk that much on me. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. What’s left of my savings is my life raft between assignments. It’s kibble and insulin for my half-blind, diabetic dog and sardines on crackers and café au 2 percent lait for me.
Six
The Rosemont Painters will be here by one o’clock. I’ve ironed another of Aunt Ginger’s terrific rayon dresses, all violet and lilac colours, and I’ve outdone myself and made five dozen coconut macaroons.
“Oh you shouldn’t have!” they’ll all tut-tut before diving on them like so many silver-haired, sweet-voiced chickadees. I’m looking forward to them, I guess because they’re one last link with Aunt Ginger. The weather has co-operated beautifully and the rhododendrons are absolutely magnificent, at their multi- coloured peak.
I’d better change into the tea dress at the very last minute. Knowing me, I’ll slop something on it or catch it on a nail. Now, the tea. None left in the caddy in the kitchen. Nothing but the best, tip-top leaves of the tea plant, Ceylon No. 1, for our Rosemont Painters.
I’ll have to head downstairs to Aunt Ginger’s collection of trunks. Downstairs. Shudder. Spider and newt territory. As long as the gas furnace, which I replaced just last fall, keeps going and the water pipes don’t freeze, I really don’t care if I ever have to go down there. The only storage space in this little three-room cottage, however, is downstairs, and downstairs I must go.
I brace my feet and heave at the brass ring to lift the trap door in the hallway. Damp, cool, stagnant air plumes upward. I take a deep breath and make my way backwards down the impossibly steep steps. The cord to the light switch hangs conveniently within arm’s reach of the bottom rung.
The cellar is a small, dank space carved into the sandstone with cement foundation walls on three sides. A wooden door leads to the outside, facing the lake, but it’s locked from the inside. Along one wall, shelves hold cobwebbed sealers, some empty, and others whose dark contents I am reluctant to investigate. Looked like Chutney From Hell the last time I checked.
When I moved into this cottage last year, the first order of business was to replace the ancient roof, which was leaking in at least a dozen places. Aunt Ginger had an ingenious system of buckets and pans to catch the drips but the