I had been living out west for more than twenty years when my parents decided it was time to sell our family island cottage. I knew, then, it was time to come home. We were a family of wanderers, never living in one town too long, always off in search of a new adventure. As we moved from place to place, the cottage remained a constant and was where I felt most rooted. I didn’t want to lose it. So I bought the property, loaded up my life, and drove across the country.
Now, when I see my own children climbing up swim rock in their bathing suits, I experience a strong sense of déjà vu. I watch them and remember my young cottage days, when our pleasant summer routine had us spending our days swimming, playing board games, loafing, running in the trees, water-skiing, building bonfires, and, as we got older, flirting with young ladies.
When the low black rain clouds rolled in across the lake and the thunder and lightning whipped the water into a frenzy, we lit the oil lamps and spent our afternoons and evenings in the cabin or out on the covered porch, reading, conversing, or playing games. There was a certain simplicity to our life there: we pulled out old board games, a deck of cards, or warped jigsaw puzzles.
The cottage is a place of youth and energy.
We ran through the island’s dark spruce and balsam forest, feeling that we had discovered a place of mystery and wonder. In this quiet wood we sensed the primeval and thought that no one had stood here before. We found our own hideouts and secret bases, hollows under thick boughs, mini caves hidden under granite ledges.
As the summer progressed, our tans darkened and our messy, tangled hair was streaked blond from the sun. We were like shipwrecked children with our own customs and rituals. Our parents were mere ghosts. We had no watches, and there was no clock on the cabin wall. When we were hungry, we gathered on swim rock for lunch and then returned to the water or the dark forest.
I remember our driftwood fires on the point, where we sang and laughed, told ghost stories, and exchanged intimacies — so now, whenever I see bonfire embers glowing, I am brought back to those days. At the end of the night, when silence had fallen over us, we trudged back to the cabin, feeling our way past the roots and rocks of the dirt trail.
Now I watch my children with their siblings, cousins, and friends, running through the same forest that I ran through as a child. They find the same hideouts and forts. Their imaginations lead them into similar games. They become pirates, knights on a quest, warlords, or frontiersmen. They paddle to nearby Sawdust Island, claiming it as their own, guarding it against all trespassers. They pack a picnic lunch, and we give them a cowbell to clang in case of trouble.
These little things are touchstones for cottage memories and proof that a summer home is not a place like anywhere else. It is a place of youth and energy — where we spent many happy, wonderful summers. The cottage that we visit now is not necessarily the geographical one of the present, but the one of my youth, and everywhere I look, the ghost of my old self is present.
The Breakdown and the Brat
Why is it that your boat never breaks down tied up to your own dock, but always waits until you are in the middle of the lake?
My sister’s family had arrived and I ran down to the dock, jumped in the boat, and started the engine. I spun the boat around with a flourish, and then roared across the one-kilometre stretch of water towards the shore to ferry them and their gear across to the cottage. Halfway there, the motor made a loud clunk and stopped. This did not sound good.
Handyman that I am, I checked the battery connections, though I knew that this problem was worse than that. I lifted the motor and inspected the prop. I took off the cover and made a theatrical display of checking over the motor, even though I did not have a clue what I was doing. The boat drifted in the wind, destined for the far east arm of the lake. I pulled out the paddle and tried to set a course back to our island.
I imagined my sister and her husband on shore, hands on their hips, saying, “Now, what’s he doing?”
I dipped the paddle and pulled hard, trying to fight against wind and wave. Why are they never with you when you are in such a predicament? I did not hope for rescue by some observant cottager on the mainland; I only wished not to be seen. I saw my wife paddling in my direction with the kayak.
“What are you doing?” said she.
“Oh, just paddling my motorboat.”
She hooked a tow rope from kayak to runabout, and then she paddled hard towards our cottage. I yelled directions to her. “Harder! More to the left. No, right. Put your back into it!”
Then I saw a boat approaching. Feeling bad to be caught with my wife working so hard, I untied her tow rope and set her free; she took several easy strokes away and then turned in surprise.
“Nothing you can do here, honey,” I shouted loudly. “You go on back to your lounger on the dock and I’ll be there momentarily. Whoa, what’s this? Oh, a boat to the rescue.” I saw that the rental boat was being driven by my brother-in-law, and realized that my dramatic presentation had been wasted. He was smiling — hero to the rescue. He pulled me to shore and headed back for his crew.
After we had gone over the motor and realized that there was nothing that we, in our wisdom, were capable of fixing, I ran the rental craft back to the resort to make arrangements to keep it for a few days. The owner had just pulled up in his ATV with a trailer full of kindling. His six-year-old grandson was loading a few sticks of the wood onto a remote control Hummer and steering it into their cabin to the woodbox. Sometimes the miniature vehicle lost control navigating over the door jamb and spilled its load on the welcome mat. The boy pretended to be the road crew, reloading the scattered wood.
Why does your boat always wait until you’re in the middle of the lake to break down?
“That’s a neat way to do that,” I said.
“Hi, dummy,” said the boy.
“Pardon?”
“Wasn’t it you stuck out on the lake?”
Before I could answer, the grandpa was there, reprimanding the youngster for his cheek with a client. I envisioned him standing with the boy earlier and saying, “Look at that dummy stuck with his boat out in the middle of the lake.” I settled up for the boat and headed back to the dock in a huff. Flustered, I pulled and pulled on the cord, and flooded the little outboard.
“You don’t even know how to drive a boat!” the precocious six-year-old shouted.
“Shush,” said his grandpa.
What’s Eating You?
Standing on the sidelines of the local soccer field last night watching my daughter’s game, I came to the realization that, here in cottage country, we enjoy a real home field advantage. We are used to the cloud of blackflies and mosquitoes that harass us; the other team is not. Our girls stand firm, used to the fog of pesky insects and prepared beforehand with a slathering of bug spray. The other team is driven to distraction. My problem is I don’t like covering myself in chemicals, but I don’t relish being eaten alive either.
A family friend frequently visits us in Muskoka from the Falkland Islands. I am sure not many Falklanders visit cottage country on a frequent basis, but he is partial to our beautiful landscape. In the Falklands there are no bugs: no blackflies, mosquitoes, wasps, or hornets. I think it has something to do with the South Atlantic winds, which blow constant and fierce, sending any pesky flying intruders catapulting westward to the South American continent.
Danny does not like snow and cold, so I invite him here in June with the promise of sparkling clear lakes, the smell of wildflowers, and warm, sunny days. I do not mention that the sweet gifts of nature in spring have a decidedly nasty side. First comes