Cottage Daze

by James Ross

  “Well, now you know the rest of the story.”

  It is so quiet and peaceful here — it seems as if you have the world all to yourself.

  First Job

  My first job was for $1.25 an hour, cutting the extensive grass around the resort at the end of our lake. I would whack the high weeds along the lakeshore with a curved metal scythe and manhandle the smoky, belching gas mower over the unruly lawn that surrounded the wood cabins.

  Sometimes I would shred some bramble with the mower blades and cut into a hornets’ nest. The boss would laugh at the sight of me sprinting up the gravel laneway. When there was not much wind, the blackflies and mosquitoes would buzz around my head, landing in the sweat streams that flowed from my stringy hair. Hey, this was the seventies, and I had a mullet. What can I say? I had just turned fifteen years of age, and this was the dream job, away from town, close to the cottage.

  At noon I would sit on the steep shoreline eating my bagged lunch, all the while looking over with envy at our island. I could see my siblings and cousins running wild, chasing each other through the trees, following their imaginations. In the heat of the afternoon, as I put fibreglass patches on old rental canoes, I saw the gang out with the boat water-skiing. They skied in circles and figure eights, and when they came close to the mainland they would wave at me. I would wave back.

  They envied me for my work and the money I was making. I envied them their freedom. If I stared out too long the boss would yell down to me, “Done those canoes yet? If you’d rather be over there playing, you best go, I’m not paying you to daydream.”

  I spent the summer staining cabins and painting trim, moving rocks and splitting and stacking wood. When boats sidled up to the dock, I would stop what I was doing, run down, and top up their tanks. They would ask me if I was one of the Ross boys from the island. They would tell me about where the fish were biting on the lake. They would warn me of the big storm that would hit the next day. I would take the information home, and sometimes it would be right.

  When people wandered into the little confectionery store, I would act as clerk or cashier. Sometimes I would exchange a couple of hours of work for some ice cream bars for my family at the cottage.

  At five o’clock quitting time, as I stored the metal weed whacker and the ancient lawn mower, I would see our boat leave the dock and head my way. It was a great feeling, the end of the workday. I would get back to the cabin and throw on my swim shorts — wash off the day’s dust and grime in the lake. Dad would take me for a spin on the skis. Mom would clang the dinner bell.

  I remember it as a summer when I was leaving my childhood days behind. After a five-day workweek, I would be given fifty dollars. I had never seen so much money. My wages went to a new slalom ski from Canadian Tire, bright orange with a yellow dragon. It still hangs in the boathouse today, and when I take it down and see the cracking and rotting thick rubber footholds, feel the scratches and chips that are a testament to years of use, memories of my first job, and an amazing summer, come flooding back.

  The Perfect Storm

  The day had been hot and humid. The lake had been calm. We enjoyed some swimming and skiing, and now, at dusk, we light a driftwood fire on the rocky point.

  Before we see the sky darkening up the north arm, we feel the weather changing. It seeps into your senses, and your mind tells you that the last time you felt this way, a storm was coming. Not to let you feel too good about your instincts, however, you realize that it was an hour ago that you noticed the loons calling each other in a frantic way; now they have disappeared. Your dogs snuck quietly away from the bonfire and have undoubtedly crawled under the porch. Only the gulls play in the approaching blow, riding high on the wind and then arcing back low over the water.

  The wind quickens with shocking speed. It blows the water into a rugged chop, whitecaps curl over, and trees begin to bend. Lightning at first lights the distant sky like small explosions. As it moves down the lake, you can see the jagged forks touch the water. The storm gets closer. Waves crash into the rocky shoreline. A lone fishing boat motors quickly for shore.

  We douse the fire with our bucket, although I am certain that the coming rain would do the job for us, and then we gather up everything and head for the cabin. Towels are pulled from the clothesline and thrown into a basket. The children secure their toys and tubes, and I make sure that the boat is covered and made tight to the dock. The wind howls through with more velocity, so we have to shout to hear each other. I tie down the canvas door of the kid’s wall tent. The flag flaps noisily.

  Here at the cottage, a storm brings a wild and astonishing beauty.

  We light the propane lights and oil lanterns in the cabin, and the children pull out a deck of cards. I sit outside under the covered porch; the howling wind and rolling waves leave me feeling serene. The rain hits suddenly; it does not start slowly but gets thrown down. Horizontal drops pelt the cottage windows and buffet me under the porch roof — so I sneak inside, and we all gather to watch the show from the big front window. Thunder shakes the cabin, and the kids scream with excitement. They count aloud the seconds between thunder and lightning. Boom and bolt happen simultaneously, and prongs of lightning seem to strike into our little bay.

  My wife asks me to go out to see if the dogs are all right. She thinks she has heard the crash of a tree as it hit the privy. She wonders aloud whether the swim raft has broken its moorings and floated to the far end of the lake. She thinks I should go check on the boat. I watch the lightning touch down nearby, and wonder whether getting life insurance with her encouragement was such a good idea.

  The storm rages for about an hour, and then the clouds move off to the south, the sound and light disappear over the distant hills. The lake calms perceptively, and the stars come out. Still, the children decide they will sleep in the loft rather than the tent tonight. I wander around to check on things. The island smells damp and cool. Besides some broken branches and boughs, all is well.

  I love a good storm. I recall being caught outside in many. I remember canoe trips, scrambling to get tents set up when a squall hits, and mountain storms on horse pack trips, trying to get horses fed while the wind whips your long slicker and rain streams from your hat. Nothing beats a cottage storm, when you are warm and cozy, under the soft glow of the oil lamps with a fire burning in the wood stove, looking out at the sound and fury over the lake.

  At home, a storm like this would have brought worries of power outages, surges, driving problems. Here at the cottage, it just brings a wild and astonishing beauty … the perfect storm.

  Holding the Fort

  Some stories are better started at the end.

  My wife, sister, and brother-in-law, back from a shopping expedition, came walking into a cottage thick with smoke. The cabin was a disaster. There I stood, my pants soaked in an area that suggested I had wet myself, hot dogs smeared into my jeans and scattered about my feet, the charred remains of something inedible visible on the oven rack behind the open stove door, and my shirt ripped and tattered and scorched black. On my face was a smile that probably looked quite idiotic — but it was simply meant to calm the horrified expressions that greeted me and to convey the message that all was okay and you won’t believe this.

  Their worry was not for my predicament, however, which became evident when the ladies asked loudly in unison, “Are the kids all right?”

  “Oh, yes.” I had forgotten about them.

  “Where are they?”

  “Oh — they’re out there.” I made a sweeping gesture with my hand, indicating a wide radius where the children might be found. “They’re on the island — somewhere …”

  My wife gave me a practised glower. My sister shook her head disbelievingly. My brother-in-law smiled — he had one-upped me in the constant understated competition of looking good to the spouses.

  Now, perhaps it’s best if I go back to the beginning.

  My sister has always thought me totally inept in all things responsibl
e 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 u
p, 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?”