Cottage Daze
James Ross
Dedication
For my folks, Alan and Joyce,
for instilling in me a love and passion for cottage living.
And to my family, Chantelle, Kayla, Tori, Sean, and Jenna,
for making our island cottage such a wonderful place to write about.
Prologue: The Writer’s Life
My wife will never understand the life of a writer.
Sure, she works hard. She heads off to her restaurant every day, where she slaves over the grill, settles staff issues, and deals with the demands of spoiled customers. She helps bring in the money necessary to support our family of six. I will give her that. But I work hard, too — she just doesn’t always see it that way.
She comes home early from work today to find me relaxing on the back deck, sprawled out in a lounger in the sunshine. A good book lies open on my lap. A frosty beer sits on a side table, along with a pen and an empty notebook. Dark shades hide my eyes, which are shut. Many would be convinced I am sleeping, but I am simply meditating, dreaming cottage thoughts, and thinking about the summer days at the lake that will soon come.
I have filled up the kiddie pool and have it placed just off the deck beyond my bare feet. In what I thought was an inspired touch, I have taken my wife’s beautiful carved wooden loon from its prestigious perch atop the fireplace mantel and have it bobbing around in the sparkling pool water.
“What are you doing?” my wife shouts, rudely awakening me from my slumbers. I try to spring to my feet, but instead, in my half-dazed state, I jump on the foot of the lounge chair. The lounger, in turn, tilts forward and springs me off the deck and into the pool with a splash. I pretend this graceful dip was my intention all along, sitting in the little wading pool splashing water over my upper torso.
If you have ever wondered what an incredulous expression looks like, all you have to do is witness the look my darling wife is giving me at this very instant. I must be a very funny sight, a big guy like me sitting in this little pool with sunglasses askew, but my spouse does not even smile. She does not even chuckle when I jump back with a little yelp, having seen a headless wooden loon swimming towards me.
“What are you doing?” she repeats, speaking very slowly and succinctly, making me for the first time realize the dangerous predicament I am now in.
“Why, I’m working,” I say. Her expression of incredulity sharpens.
“Research,” I try. “Writing is all about mindset.” (I’m not entirely sure she is buying it.) Her hands stay fixed on her hips. I can’t help but notice the colour rising, the fists clenching.
“I was suffering from a tiny bit of writer’s block — and I need to have a ‘Cottage Daze’ column in tomorrow. I needed to get into the mood.”
I sense I’m making some headway finally. I notice her head nodding slightly.
“Ah, yes, of course … then perhaps I can help,” she offers graciously.
My accommodating wife quickly fetches me a gallon of deck stain and a brush. “Pretend it is the cottage porch,” she says, pointing to our oversized cedar patio deck.
Later, while she has me chopping firewood, trimming trees, and raking well into the twilight hour, she bustles about in the rickety garden shed. I must admit, my wife has quite the imagination when she applies herself. With a little bit of a rustic touch, she soon has that clapboard shack looking much like an old cottage bunkhouse, complete with mice, spiders, and a thin little lumpy mattress and scratchy wool blanket for me.
“Good night,” she says. “Hope this helps get you in the mood.” She wanders off to our comfortable house. I light the oil lamp she has kindly provided, grab my notebook, and put pen to paper.
Yes, writing is all about mindset. Perhaps my wife understands the life of a writer, after all.
Part 1
Springtime: Back to the Cottage
The Opening
It is an annual ritual that takes place once the snow has receded — not disappeared completely, but at least retreated to the protected shade of the trees. Once the thick lake ice has magically transformed itself, first on a mild spring night into an infinite number of tiny ice capsules before disappearing completely the following afternoon, and once that first sunny weekend is promised in April or May … it is time. It is an event as much anticipated by the family as Christmas morning, and is often full of as many surprises. It is the opening of the cottage.
The children are loaded into the SUV, along with the dog and enough provisions to last a year. The boat and trailer, fresh out of winter hibernation, are hooked behind. Off you go, down the highway and along the twisting, winding road to the lake. The children get carsick, the dog makes smells (or at least nobly accepts the blame), Mom snoozes, and Dad yells at the kids and chastises the pooch. Not long into the trip the first “How much farther?” and “Are we there yet?” are uttered from the back seats.
The ruckus gets louder, the dog sleeps and drools, the wife sleeps and only occasionally drools, and the dad hoarsely begs the children to quiet down. You are almost there, and the children argue over who has seen the lake first, the dog wakes up and pants out the window, the wife’s eyes remain closed, and Dad’s mouth lifts into a slight smile — his voice is gone. Then you arrive, in our case at the landing, which looks out at the lake and our island cottage. The dog runs in circles, the children run on the dock, and the wife wakes up and states, “That didn’t take very long.”
Back at the cottage — life is good.
The rain starts, the wind picks up, and the water gets choppy. With everything loaded you head across the lake wondering what surprises you will find at the cabin this year.
Thankfully, the old birch, the one that you meant to cut down in the fall, has fallen on its own but only slightly clipped the porch roof — the roof you wanted to replace this summer anyway. Worse, the ancient cedar that has stood regally for so long at the back of the privy has snapped and twisted, and is held up ever so gently in the limbs of a spindly pine, inches above the outhouse. You have to use this building, but are afraid to do so until the cedar is cleaned up, lest the branches of the pine give out while you are seated and you become always remembered on the lake as the fellow who died in this peculiar and awful fashion.
As if in celebration of your impending doom, the squirrels have decorated the building with the toilet paper you forgot to put away at closing. The mice have held a party in the cabin. Those who ice fish off your point every winter have, for whatever reason, forgotten to remove their bottles and trash. The Javex bottle left in the kitchen has frozen and exploded, and bleached the linoleum when it thawed in spring — you planned to replace the floor this summer anyway. A sack of potatoes was left in the shoe trunk over winter, which now smells only slightly more pleasant than your old runners.
The pump won’t pump, the propane fridge won’t light, and you forgot the liquor.
But you are back at the cottage. Life is good.
Opening Checklist
Weeks before that first trip to the cottage, I pull out the “Opening of the Cottage Checklist” from the safety of my underwear drawer in my bedroom armoire. The checklist is a yellowing, coffee-stained, crinkled piece of lined paper, with fading blue