Cottage Daze (7 page)

My sister has always thought me totally inept in all things responsible and domestic. It was with a countenance of worry that she had begrudgingly agreed to leave me in charge of our combined seven children, while the three mature adults headed to town to restock our provisions.

“Don't let them play too close to the water. Don't let them play with the axe or the chainsaw. Don't let them play with matches. Don't encourage them to swim to shore.” And then to her oldest boy the heartfelt plea — “Watch over your brothers and cousins, please.”

In their absence, I was determined to prove my sister's lack of confidence misplaced. I went back to my work, sealing the cracks between logs and around window and door frames, but diligently, on the quarter hour, I hollered out into the thick forest asking if all was well. Each time, the response was affirmative. On the occasion of my fifteenth check, I received the response, “What's for lunch?”

“Hot dogs!” I bellowed, wanting to sound like I had a plan.

So back to the cabin I went, lit the propane oven, and tossed in a dozen buns. I placed a pot full of wieners and water on the gas element, then flicked my butane igniter — poof, easy. I hung up the lighter, very pleased with myself. I felt my stomach getting quite warm. I looked down, and to my horror saw that my paint-stained, soiled work shirt was afire. I patted it gingerly with my open palm, which made a “whoosh, whoosh” sound as it fanned the flame. Now, I knew what I was supposed to do in an emergency like this, but I was alone in a cottage far from civilization, and I would have felt quite silly rolling around with this small flame burning on my belly. So I waved my hand harder, which served to both spread the fire and knock the pot of wieners and water from their stovetop perch — water unfortunately soaking my pants but avoiding the fire.

I rolled on the ground. I wasn't burnt, but it was a mess. Then I heard the boat docking. I panicked and looked for the broom — seeing instead black smoke billowing out of the oven.

Now, in this, the last chance I will ever be afforded to “hold the fort,” I did learn a lesson. The spray-in foam insulation is very flammable before it cures. So, if you've been working with it, guys, and wiping your hands on your work shirts, be very careful to not burn your wieners.

Death of a Dog

Unfortunately, I have buried many dogs in my lifetime — such is the canine business that I am in. But the one who lies beneath a stand of old cedars on our island's highest point was the first to be laid to rest at the cottage.

The day before had been like any other at the lake. The sun was warm, and we had spent the day playing in and on the water. The dog had run his usual distances, watching over the children in their play, keeping his eye on us, making sure to miss nothing and that nothing was amiss.

Macky was not only a pet, but also a sled dog and my leader. He had worked by my side for years, helping me to earn my living. When his winter work was over, his happiest days were when he saw us loading up the truck with paddles and life jackets, propane tanks and fishing rods — criteria for him that signalled a trip to the cottage. He loved coming to the island because it meant a world of freedom, a place surrounded by water where he could run to his heart's content. Nothing ever escaped his attention, especially if it smelt of trouble or adventure.

When I woke from the boathouse bunkie in the morning, Macky was not there to greet me, as was his usual custom. I found him sick and distraught, lying under the boughs of an old spruce. He groaned. His stomach was rock hard.

Death had joined Mack to the placed he loved.

The day was dark and stormy. Thunder bellowed from the west and sheets of lightning lit the water. I picked up the dog and ran for the boat. The remoteness that was a desired part of our cottage escape was suddenly an enemy, and the drive to town was long. We made it to the vet in time to see the dog's last breath, and I knew that if this had not happened at the cottage, perhaps we could have prolonged his life.

I wept gently as I dug the hole for Macky, hacking away at tree roots and prying out rocks until it was sufficiently deep. I laid the dog's muscular, handsome black and white body inside, tucked in his enormous paws, and used his old sleeping blanket as a shroud. On my hands and knees, I packed in the damp, spongy brown soil with a flat-faced shovel, pushing it down until the hole was full, swollen with its new burden. Then I marked the grave with a flat piece of granite I pulled from the lake.

When this was done, my children joined me looking down at the mounded earth. My oldest cried with me, as we both knew we would never again see this old dog running wild at our cottage. My youngest, not fully understanding, tilted her head back and looked up at me, concerned for my tears. She thought it was only she who wept.

We don't know what happened. Perhaps he had eaten something he shouldn't have. Perhaps it was just his time. The old-timers on the lake gave their theories — poison toads, tainted mushrooms, reaction to a bee sting. What was indisputable was that he had lived well, a long and full life.

Though he may have managed to live slightly longer if we were home and closer to help, in the end death had joined Macky to the place he loved. We can all wish for a similar end.

First Ski

Learning to water-ski is a little bit like learning to ride a bicycle. Okay, so one of them is on dry land and one is in the water, one of them is on two wheels and the other is on two boards. Still, it is balance and trying, and falling and trying again, and skinning your knee or swallowing lake water, and then trying one more time.

With training wheels off, you hold the seat of your kid's bike and run along behind. You let go for a second and the bike starts to wobble, so you lunge forward, grab on, and run some more. You might just be getting into the best shape of your life. Finally, on the umpteenth try, you let go and the child just pedals away. You jog a bit further, but you know the time has come. You stop and try to cheer, but you are wheezing, hunched over, and gasping for breath. So you delicately give a thumbs-up.

My nine-year-old son got up on water skis this week. He has been working hard at it this summer, trying to keep up with his older sisters. We do not have the fancy training bars on the boat, or any particular model of learning skis. When the children's feet fit into the smallest pair of water skis we own, they are welcome to give it a try.

They get into the water, hold the rope, yell “Hit it,” and then we see where it takes us. We get into the water with them, hold them steady, bombard them with little tidbits of useless advice, and then watch helplessly as they are jerked quickly to the surface of the water. Just as quickly, they get tossed back into the lake with a violent splash and a clatter of skis. Their legs go in different directions, so you are sure their limber bodies will be torn in two.

We swim up to them and tell them that they were almost up. We urge them to give it another try. “Don't let go so quickly,” we tell them. They trust us and try again — this time hanging on to the tow bar far too long after they have fallen, dragging themselves through the water like a torpedo, swallowing half of the lake. “Just about,” we yell when they finally surface.

I do not think any of us really know what the secret to getting up on the skis is — at least I know I don't. We give advice culled from our years of skiing, but until everything comes together for them, in their own brains, they are going nowhere.

Then the time comes. He is up — unsteady, yes, but up and skiing. His skis drift apart, and with body language you try to will him out of the splits. He bends too far forward and bobs over some rough water, but refuses to go down. The wide smile on his face is reward enough for all the patience and repetition. You try to cheer, but instead take in a mouthful of lake water and only sputter and cough and stick a thumbs-up. You realize you are freezing to death. You realize that the boat is coming back around and you're bobbing in the middle of the bay. You swim frantically for shore and realize that you were in better shape way back when you were teaching him to ride his bicycle.

It's all worth it, because he is skiing, and he is feeling good about himself. You know that now that he has gotten up, he will always get up, always be able to ski. Like learning to ride a bike, when you put it all together and rise out of the water … there is no going back. You never seem to forget the secret, the secret that can be learned but never shared.

Like learning to ride a bike — when they put it all together and rise from the water, there is no going back.

He will open his eyes in the morning — the late morning — and look out at a lake as calm as glass, the perfect, still water for skiing. He will say, “Dad, can I go skiing?” You will put down your book and your coffee, drop whatever it is you are doing, and drag him around the lake. Sometimes you will ask yourself, Why did I ever teach him to do this? Mostly, you are just happy that you don't have to swim around for hours in the cool lake water anymore, helping him out. Well, until it comes time for your next one, the six-year-old, the youngest, to give it a go.

Life Is a Game

I am feeling very dejected this evening. I'm sitting at the kitchen table with my head in my hands, looking down at a mess of cards and a cribbage board, while my seven-year-old card shark of a daughter dances around the cottage chanting, “I skunked daddy!” It doesn't seem very long ago that we were teaching her the game and taking it easy on her while she learned. Now, I try my hardest, but … “I smell something skunky,” she sings. “Is there a smell in the room?”

“It's a good game for learning her numbers, isn't it?” I grumble to my wife.

I don't know about you, but we play a lot of games with the whole family when we are at the cottage. Most evenings, after the supper dishes have been cleaned up, we will sit around the big kitchen table and pull out a game. Sometimes, when the rain clouds have closed in and it's wet and grey outside, we might spend an afternoon rolling dice and moving little men around a board. There is something about the cottage and the tradition of games.

Perhaps it is because we have no electricity at our island cabin, and therefore no television, video games, or any such diversions. I believe it is more than that, though. A trip to the cottage is a step back to simpler times, and those simpler times are more conducive to quality family time.

We have a storage bench where all the games are kept. Some have been there for thirty-some years, since I was a kid. Some are more modern. A couple are missing a piece or two, replaced by makeshift cards or odd trinkets. Some of the boxes have been taped up, while others are in mint condition.

We have original editions of Clue and Monopoly, two perennial favourites. There are Risk, Full House, Masterpiece, and Life. There are checkers and Chinese checkers, chess, backgammon, and Mastermind. We have an old Rummoli game where we can teach the children how to gamble, in the same manner and on the same board where I learned how to play poker with my parents when I was young. In my dad's handwriting on one corner of the board, now slightly faded and barely legible, is the order of what beats what, from royal flush down to ace high.

Of course, there are several decks of cards, most of them complete. We love a good round of euchre or hearts. There are modern games like The Settlers of Catan and Cranium. When bigger groups gather, we can make fools of ourselves playing Pictionary, Balderdash, Trivial Pursuit, or charades. My wife and I will sit on the dock on a quiet afternoon and play a game of Scrabble.

I remember my siblings and me cleaning up after supper while my parents went for an evening paddle. Then we would get a game set up and eagerly await their return. Playing a game with the parents was always something we looked forward to — it was a memorable part of cottage life.

Another memory is of my parents going to a friend's for dinner. They returned talking about all that happened in the evening, and I could hear them from my bed. I caught snippets of their conversation: some murdered body, hit over the head with a candlestick, in a ballroom. From what I could understand, there were secret passages between rooms — how cool is that in the imaginative mind of a five-year-old? My mother had been hanging out with some professor in a billiard room, but my dad didn't seem to mind, even when the academic turned out to be a killer. My dad seemed to have followed some sexpot named Scarlet around, and this did seem to annoy my mother. I thought, boy adults have fun: people murdered, and what a mansion their friends must have! A game called Clue had just been introduced to North America.