Cottage Daze

by James Ross

  I did hear my wife laughing hysterically as I windmilled my arms and danced around the bunkie under attack. Amazingly, I was stung only once before I gracefully dived beneath the bug netting and onto the bed. The cloud of annoyed wasps buzzed the mesh. I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but I’m considering myself a bit of a hero for ridding the boathouse of the venomous scourge. I half expect a big hug, to be smothered in kisses and a heartfelt “Thank you!”

  Instead, I get: ”It’s moments like this that make me wonder what possessed me to marry such an idiot.” I begin to answer but she cuts me off. “That was a rhetorical question!”

  In the quiet time that follows, I’m left to muse about wasp nests and misadventures.

  My father-in-law is a strong, burly man who used to be a navy diver. As such, he survived shark attacks, but a bite from a little tiny wasp could kill him. He suffered multiple stings while rescuing his son from a wasp attack, and has since become allergic. He drank one down once, presumably in a tot of rum, and had a severe reaction to a sting in his throat. My mother-in law hangs brown paper bags around whenever she is at the cottage. Her theory is that wasps and bees, being territorial, figure the bags are another’s nest and stay away. Pointing out that the bags are covered with wasps does not change her opinion. Perhaps, it is her way of knocking off her husband.

  “Oh, I tried everything to keep the wasps away,” wink, wink, nudge, nudge. “And still, in the end, they got him.”

  Last summer, my oldest daughter tripped over a nest when she was playing some game of manhunt on the island. She was stung a dozen times. We heard her holler and then she darted out of the forest with a cloud of wasps in pursuit, like in some cartoon. We all dropped what we were doing and ran for the cabin — almost forgetting to let her in. If I’d had my paddle I could have staved off the attack. Not that such heroics would have done me any good.

  Who Has Seen the Wind?

  Who has seen the wind?

  Neither I nor you:

  But when the leaves hang trembling,

  The wind is passing through.

  — Christina Rossetti, “Who Has Seen the Wind?”

  Nothing in nature is ever exact, but it is not at all unusual for the wind on our lake to rise about ten each morning, and then die out in the late afternoon. Today it is different. It has remained still through the first half of the day, allowing the kids to get out water-skiing on a lake as calm as glass. In mid-afternoon the wind stirs up and begins to blow, whipping the water into a frenzy.

  I run down to the dock to turn the boat around, so that the bow is facing out into the lake and into the wind. I tie it on the leeside so that it won’t get knocked against the dock stringers, but is held away. The flags flap noisily on their pole. The wind creaks the dock, flutters the leaves, and whistles across the water and through the boathouse. It bends the tall pines, shakes the boughs, and slaps the water violently against the shore.

  We secure everything that might topple off the island, except ourselves, and then settle on the dock to enjoy the blow. Any flies or mosquitoes that might have been bugging us earlier have been blown north, tumbling head over legs off to the mainland. Seagulls, who don’t frequent our island, seem to love a blustery day. They circle above, screeching and soaring high on the air currents before diving like fighter jets. Two ravens sit on a branch overhead watching the antics of the gulls. They huddle together, shifting the grip of their feet while letting the wind rustle their head feathers.

  Sailors have always loved and depended on the wind. On a day like today we might see a Hobie Cat, sailboarder, or small sailboat hiked out and cutting through the surf. The local bush pilot likes the waves that the wind brings, giving texture to his runway, making it easier to land.

  When we were young canoeists, we used to hate the strong headwinds that seemed to always greet us on the last day of our trips, testing our mettle as we pulled hard for home. I remember one trip when my brother and I decided to wait out the wind and rollers that assailed us on our last day, on the seven-kilometre paddle up the main lake to the cottage. We pulled off to shore and fished and slept and read until darkness fell, until the wind finally deadened and gave the lake a few hours’ peace.

  We left at dark, paddling up the calm waters under a brilliant canopy of stars. We passed Gull Island, where the seagulls, startled awake, circled the rocky knoll, their white bodies caught in the moonlight, cackling at us for our intrusion. We pulled up to the dock at midnight and watched the mist rising from the water, the last heat in the surface being pushed into the air and swirling there in macabre patterns. We had only meant to escape the wind, but ended up having a beautiful and memorable paddle.

  Our kids are not so wimpy on this day. They grab their kayaks to play in the turbulent water, jumping their bows over the foamy whitecaps. They whoop and holler, and laugh when one of their siblings gets caught sideways to a huge roller and turtles into the cool water.

  Life at the lakeside cottage is controlled by the wind and the waves it brings. Our island is small enough that we can never really escape the water, never forget that it is an island separated from the mainland. Also, being an island, there is always a calm side to escape to if we wish. If the wind and waves buffet the dock, we take our chairs to swim rock on the island’s north side. If the waves are breaking over our rocky swim area, we settle into our Muskoka chairs on the south-side dock.

  The wind blows on into the night. The water splashes and gurgles under our boathouse bunkie’s floorboards, and laps onto the rocky shore. We settle into bed listening to the water and the wind, and, in no time, its sweet lullaby has us fast asleep.

  Pirates of Muskoka

  I had not realized that pirates still sailed the waters of cottage country. Actually, I did not know that they ever had. Yet, here I am with my family out on Lake Muskoka, surrounded by the savage villains. Boats of every description circle our ship. The Jolly Roger flies from their sterns and their lanyards. The ugliest collection of vermin ever to sail on Muskoka’s waters wave their cutlasses and swords in our direction.

  Our fearless leader, Captain Hook, bellows directions to us and waves his misshaped hand around in the air. Little Johnny keeps watch with his spyglass from high above the wheelhouse and warns us of impending danger. A cannon fires from behind some cottage ramparts on Crawford Island. We swing broadside and respond in turn, giving them a taste of our own powder. Our cannonballs must find their mark, for the pirates on the shore tumble off their rocky knoll into the water.

  As we pass Beechgrove Island, I can’t help but notice a few lovely maidens being forced to walk the plank off a cottage dock, and I contemplate going to their rescue. I daze out for a minute and imagine myself doing a perfect swan dive off the port side, with my weapon clenched in my teeth. A few strong strokes and I’m at the dockside, fighting off the evil scallywags. There are many of them, but I am an expert swordsman. My quick rapier protects me from their blows, and soon I’m on the offensive, slashing and stabbing until all the scurvy foes are vanquished. The trio of wenches scream in delight and jump into my arms.

  Water bombs burst on our ship’s deck, bringing me back to the moment. I see my wife glaring at me with her hands on her hips — she knows how my mind works. “What?” I ask her, hands out in a plea of innocence.

  Then the enemy is aboard, scaling the sides of the Wenonah II, scrambling onto the upper decks. I slink back behind my spouse, letting our brave young crew step forward in combat. They quickly send the invaders falling overboard into the icy lake waters. A raucous cheer is raised, and then we head into the galley for pancakes.

  My son’s soccer team had been invited out on the Wenonah II for a pirate cruise. I had, at first, tried all kinds of excuses for not attending, but my wife would have none of it. She loves a good theme party and also loves every chance she gets to try to make me look like a fool. She cheerily wakes me up early on this Sunday morning, having cut up my best pair of khaki pants and shredded my favourite black T-shirt
, insisting that I dress the part of Long John Silver or Captain Jack Sparrow. She ties a black bandana around my head and clips a circular ring on my ear. I put on a pair of sunglasses and she shakes her head. I insist on a dusty bottle of rum in my satchel: a prop, you understand.

  Of course, as soon as I’m decked out in pirate garb I immediately break into song — “Sixteen men on the dead man’s chest; Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!” My children roll their eyes. They are all decked out like a bunch of urchins themselves, as my wife attempts to get them into the spirit of our upcoming voyage. Well, in truth, my oldest daughter dresses the same way she outfits herself year-round to go to school.

  My wife gives me a plastic, dollar-store cutlass to fight off invaders. I slice it through the air in my best Errol Flynn impression and then give her a thwack on the rump. She whacks me on the shoulder with her weapon, and I realize her giant sword is made of wood. “Drink and the Devil had done for the rest — Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”

  In spite of my trepidation, it is a fun time out on the lake. With its motley group of pirates aboard, the Wenonah II leaves the wharf in Gravenhurst. There is a flotilla of more than twenty small boats that follow the big ship around on this day, most with young pirates aboard.

  Along the mainland and on the islands we pass, cottagers dressed in full pirate attire put on their own little drama. There are soldiers and pirates; beautiful maidens, wenches, and mermaids; dandies and old sea dogs; public executions and dunkings; sword fights and treasure — everything one would expect in the romantic world of the buccaneer. Of course, it is only the Wenonah II crew that boards the big ship, but it delights the kids. So if you are looking for a fun way to entertain the youngsters during their cottage days, may I suggest heading out on the dangerous, pirate-infested waters of Muskoka.

  Are You Afraid of the Dark?

  I have to be careful what I say here, because I know that my mother reads this column, and one never wants to incur the wrath of a mother. Nor would I want her to worry that some of the psychological problems that I now have can be traced back to things she might have done. Yes, she has always had a wonderful way with kids. She can entertain them, play with them, tease them, and, if she really wants to, frighten them half to death.

  I remember it vividly, as if it happened last night. We were driving down a deserted country road late in the evening (where we were going has been lost over time). My siblings and I were sitting in the back seat, undoubtedly bored, and likely asking “How much farther?” It was a dark night, with only a slight glow of moonlight. The windows were rolled down, so the warm breeze tussled our hair. Huge trees bordered both sides of the road and stretched their gnarly branches over us like a canopy. The wind blew the leaves, so it looked like giant hands were reaching for us inside the car. Our tires crunched over gravel, and the occasional screech of a bird added to the sinister atmosphere.

  Presumably wanting to keep us entertained, my mother decided that this was a good time to introduce us to the “ghost song.” In a spooky voice she began singing about three women in a graveyard who meet up with three ghosts. The frightful lyrics slowly build, each verse separated by a ghostly chorus, until the song ends abruptly with a climatic scream. We cowered, sinking low into our bench seat, wide-eyed and trembling. Well, it had that effect on my sister anyway; the boys were much braver, of course.

  That old song might have both scared and scarred me for life, but I remember all the words and sing it now to my kids, on a dark stormy night, around the evening campfire. Whenever someone new comes to visit us at the cottage, the kids say, “We have to sing them the ghost song!”

  I am not sure why we like to be scared. Why do we find delight in watching a good horror movie, reading terrifying books, or hearing macabre stories around the campfire? Ghost stories have been with us for as long as people have been telling each other stories. We love to be frightened, as long as it is not too far outside our comfort zone.

  When I am travelling to some distant country, I always like taking a haunted walk. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe in ghosts, but the outings are great for giving a visitor a feel for a different culture and the history of an ancient city. If they are well done, they are fun and creepy.

  I have wandered about in a massive Chinese cemetery in the middle of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, met historic characters amongst the dark alleys and old stone buildings of Old Montreal’s historic port, taken a ghostly walk along Victoria’s waterfront during the “Ghosts of Victoria Festival,” and followed a black-cloaked, lantern-carrying guide through the foggy, cobblestone streets of Old Edinburgh in Scotland. All such locations were brimming with ghostly atmosphere.

  There is also something about the cottage. Perhaps it is because the nights there are dark and quiet. There is the absence of the lights from town or city. The sounds are perhaps not as familiar as the ones we hear daily at home. The wind whips the branches of trees, the waves break on shore, a beaver slaps his tail, a raven gurgles, and a loon wails. Visitors to the cottage are especially susceptible to the unfamiliar.

  The children insist that I tell a horrifying tale at the evening bonfire or read them a ghost story before bed. I read them “The Hook,” “The Hitchhiker,” and “The Weeping Woman.” They tell me that the stories are lame. I read them “The Tell-Tale Heart” and “The Monkey’s Paw.” They are quiet. I stand up and douse the fire. We wander back in silence, single file along the well-worn path to the cottage. Shadows from a full moon dance across the white rock, playing tricks with our eyes. Blades of grass, moved by the wind, scratch across rocks, boulders that suddenly look like crumbling headstones. A pair of bats slice by in the air. The screech of what must be a gull sounds like an old woman shrieking shrilly at us.

  Of course, an aspect of the ghost story for the children is to never admit to being scared. “Oh, that wasn’t very scary,” they will tell me after the tale — but then, before settling in for the night, they ask me off-handedly whether the doors are locked and if I wouldn’t mind closing their curtains.

  Bonfire

  There is something about a campfire. It is mesmerizing and comforting, and a great social focal point on a dark cottage night. If the dock is the main gathering place on a hot summer’s day, so is the bonfire pit on a starry, still evening. The bonfire experience also transcends the generations. It is not something that you do just to appease your kids. Nor do the younger set drop all the fun they are having to hang out reluctantly around the fire with the adults. It is something that all look forward to at the end of the perfect cottage day.

  On the eastern tip of our island a solid rock outcrop juts into the lake. We call it fire rock because it has become the ideal location to sit out on a still, dark evening around a roaring bonfire. There is a shallow indentation in the granite that serves as the perfect fire pit, and flat rocks from the lake bed are stacked to shield it from the wind. Trees grow well back, a safe distance from the fire, and there are no dangerous underground roots that can smoulder out of sight. We have some log benches set around, and some pointed green willow marshmallow sticks lean against a stack of firewood.

  It is a place that seems to generate conversation. The fire itself is a focal point for reflection. Staring into the smouldering coals I have come up with the inspiration for many column themes. The kids love to roast marshmallows and snack on the gooey s’mores. Young boys in particular like to poke at the flames with a sturdy stick, and then, when their stick catches fire at the tip, they stick it in the lake and listen to the hiss. Well, I guess its not always just the kids who enjoy this; men in general seem fascinated by fires, closet pyromaniacs.

  Word games are played, tall tales are told, and many songs are sung. Everyone, young and old, joins in. Grandpa often pulls his harmonica out of his pocket and plays requests. I remember guiding horse trips when I was young and carefree, week-long pack trips through Banff, in Alberta’s Rocky Mountains. It’s just what a young man did for work with a journalism degree in his pocket. Ea
ch evening the group would gather around the fire pit to share stories. The cook would pull out his steel-string guitar and sing all the classic cowboy tunes, his ballads and yodelling echoing off the surrounding mountain peaks, many miles from civilization. Sometimes a guest would pull out a harmonica and play along, and I would immediately long for our cottage. (Well, I’d miss my dad, too.)

  Campfire traditions have been handed down — some we are not sure how they started. “I hate white rabbits,” we will say when the smoke blows our way and stings our eyes. I don’t know why, it is just something that is said. Imagine when we had some friends from Switzerland visit the cottage recently. Our kids are exclaiming that they hate this particular colour of rabbit. The Swiss friends look puzzled, but remain too polite to ask why we are rabbit racists with this peculiar bunny bias. When I tell them why it is said, they state matter-of-factly, “And this works? Why not just sit upwind from the fire?”

  Not just at the cottage but living in cottage country, the bonfire becomes a part of many social gatherings. We recently got together with kids and parents at a wrap-up soccer party for our youngest daughter’s team, at the coach’s home. The lush grass in his backyard rose to a rocky knoll, with a central hollow making the perfect fire pit. Youngsters and adults enjoyed some pizza and some games, and then we gravitated to the roaring fire. The coach entertained with a guitar, and we talked with other parents that we barely knew. Standing around the evening fire encourages this.

  At New Year’s we gather at another friends house for an energetic shinny match on his large outdoor rink, and then warm ourselves at midnight with a glass of champagne, while standing around the roaring bonfire that burns its own deep pit in the snow and ice. How Canadian is that?