So the journey continued for this spider and me, two castaways separated from certain death by a few dry boards. I kept a watchful eye on him — and sensed that he did the same with me. When I looked nervously down, he craned his little head and peered skyward. I smiled, and he returned the grin. The trip seemed to last for most of the day, but in reality took about an hour. Finally we circled around Blueberry Island and motored into the little nook to return the dock to its old resting spot.
The boat crew released the tow rope and threw me a paddle so I could steer our dock into position. As I leaned over to paddle, the dock dipped under the lake water. The spider headed for high ground, which just happened to be up my leg. I swatted him.
Now, before you get upset at my reaction, thinking that I had killed my faithful travelling companion, when I say “swatted him” I simply mean I brushed him off my leg. True, my action did send him catapulting into the lake, causing him to thrash about in a dance of survival, but it was a predicament that was easily rectified with a gently placed paddle blade. The arachnid climbed aboard, and I placed him gently on shore. Without a word of thanks, he scurried off.
I hope that Harvey is happy to have his dock back, and that he does not mind that I have added to the spider population of his island. I’m sure he will happily bound off his dock, up onto the island, and walk face first into a sticky spiderweb. Perhaps it was a pregnant female.
Flying Piranha
My wife is from Vancouver. There are no blackflies in Vancouver — none in the whole of British Columbia, really. There are plenty of mosquitoes. There are little gnats we call no-see-ums that get under the brim of your hat and bite at your forehead. There are wasps and hornets and bees, and ticks that drop off the spring willow and burrow into your neck. Big horseflies dart around your head, avoiding your windmilling arms, driving you slowly crazy.
There are biting red ants that crawl up your socks and nip at your ankles when you unwittingly sit on a rotten log or lie out in the grass on a warm summer’s day using their anthill as a pillow. There are many minor nuisances in our western province, but none that can measure up to the ferocity of the blackfly. Blackflies prefer the rocks, lakes, bush, and swift-flowing streams of Muskoka. They are a little bit like cottagers that way.
While I have fond memories of these miniature flying piranha from my youth, when we move back to cottage country in the summer of 2005, my wife has yet to be introduced.
“There is something wrong with Jenna,” cries my wife. “She’s bleeding from the back of her head.” She holds our six-year-old daughter close to comfort her, but her panic and the mention of blood serves only to agitate the youngster, sending her into tears.
I wander over to have a look. Little trickles of blood stream down from behind each ear.
“Did you hit your head?” my wife is asking.
“Blackflies,” I pronounce. Of course, I am always quite pleased to know something about something. Especially to know some little tidbit that my wife does not. It happens so rarely.
“Blackflies did that?” she asks incredulously — and then she takes a swat at a deer fly that has landed on our daughter’s back. “Well, there is one blackfly that won’t be bothering you again,” she states haughtily, as the crumpled fly falls dead to the grass.
“No, no,” say I — and I point to a tiny little flying speck that buzzes Jenna’s hair.
My wife squints at the minuscule gnat and then stares at me as if I am quite mad. The little black insects cloud around my head as well, landing on the hairline at the back of my neck. I stupidly let one take a huge chunk out of my hide, just to prove my point. She watches the blood flow, and then starts to laugh. Cheered by the sudden gaiety, my young daughter also giggles at my misfortune, and the two ladies trot happily into the cottage to clean up the bloody smears, leaving me to wave my hands frantically at a swarming, invisible enemy.
While blackflies love me, they do not seem to care for my wife. When we work around the cabin, she does so in shorts and T-shirt, while I cover up, flail my arms about inanely, and constantly twitch and shake like a dog. Why blackflies prefer some people to others, I do not know. Perhaps it is because, though she is of the fair sex, I have the fairer skin. I have told her that her blood must be sour — to which she retorts that most flying insects do seem to swarm over horse droppings in the field.
The Game of Tape and Ladders
Okay, here’s the deal: I’m swinging on the cabin’s main log beam, looking a lot like Cheetah, the chimpanzee. Perhaps I am dating myself here. Cheetah was Tarzan’s pet monkey in those 1930s black and white Tarzan movies, the chimp who was so talented at swinging on branches and from tree to tree. Maybe my audience for this column is a little younger; I should have compared myself to Rafiki, the famous blue-faced baboon of Lion King fame — or perhaps George of the Jungle.
Anyway, I’m wasting time here, and time is something I don’t feel I have a lot of in my current predicament — so back to my story …
I’m swinging on the big log purloin that runs the length of our cottage. I was cleaning the large upper front window when the ladder underneath me essentially collapsed.
Swinging around, holding on for dear life, and looking down at the floor far beneath, I sense that my wife is standing there laughing at me. She seems to be asking, “What do you think you are doing?” Then, perhaps showing a tiny bit of compassion, she seems to be asking if I’m all right. It’s like it is not unusual for her to hear a crash, come into the cabin, and see her husband swinging on the ceiling like a primate.
It seems like hours, but is more likely just a few seconds that I hang there speechless — speechless until I realize she is trying to coax me down with a banana. “Please hurry out to the shed and grab the old wooden ladder,” I plead.
“That old thing?” she asks. “That’s dangerous.”
“Dear, my arm is getting tired here.”
She rescues me with the aged, warped wooden ladder, the one with the split rail and missing rungs, the ladder that she has been asking me to throw out or burn for years. Instead, I kept it as a backup (and I’m sure glad I did) for the more modern aluminum stepladder, the one that was held together with duct tape, the one that my father-in-law had rescued from the dump and bequeathed to me at the time of my marriage. Perhaps he hoped we would elope. Or perhaps he hoped the ladder would collapse into a mangle of metal with me on it, as it did just now.
Safe on the ground, and feeling lucky, I expect a few tears and a hug of gratitude from my darling spouse, who came so close to losing me. Instead, I find myself being chastised. “We’re getting a new ladder. I’ve been telling you to throw those ladders out for years!” This anger comes from being truly afraid, I try telling myself, until, “It could have been me on that ladder, did you ever think of that?”
It is funny. Our cottage often becomes the retirement home for all of our old tools and furniture, stuff that has long worn out its welcome at home. When my wife says, “We have to get rid of that before someone gets hurt,” I slip it into my pickup and sneak it up to the cottage. I might find the available funds to buy some nice steaks and a good bottle of wine for the cottage barbecue dinner, I might even splurge on that bottle of rare single malt to enjoy on the dock at day’s end, but a few bucks for a new ladder? I’ve got one that works — I even have a backup.
As she continues chastising, my wife notices that my concentration is waning. Worse than that, she always seems to know what I’m thinking. My gaze has shifted to the scrap of metal that was once a sturdy ladder — thirty-some years earlier, perhaps. I’m thinking, “With a few wooden splints and a lot of duct tape, we just might get a few more years out of” … whap. I survived the fall, only to be concussed by