Cottage Daze

by James Ross

  Driftwood fires on the point, where we sing, laugh, roast marshmallows, and tell ghost stories.

  The bonfire inevitably brings about the feeling of togetherness and warmth. It is a great part of cottage life, sitting around the evening fire, telling the kids a ghost story before bed. The flames dance across the white rock and reflect off the shimmering lake waters. The sudden wail of a loon pierces the night, causing even the storyteller to jump. As the flames die down to glowing coals, we look up into the brilliant canopy of twinkling light searching for falling stars. Then we douse the flames and make our way back along the trail to the cottage.

  That ’70s Show

  My parents celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary this past May. Fifty years together, imagine that. They were married in 1957 when Leave It to Beaver was the most popular show on television and “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Carnation” topped the music charts. It had been a double wedding, shared with my mother’s twin brother and his wife, so now it was a double fiftieth anniversary celebration. We had a party for them, as all good kids would do. We rented a hall and invited the extended family.

  We pulled out the old photos, and my sister put together a slide show presentation. With modern, PowerPoint technology, the photos faded in and out on the screen, showing the lives of my parents from their childhood days to meeting, courting, marriage, children, and then grandchildren. A musical score accompanied the presentation. It was nostalgic, heartwarming, and, at times, comical.

  The early cottage days were well represented, as our cottage time was and will always be a big part of our lives. It was the summer of 1974, and my folks were paddling around the small islands in the west arm of a beautiful, pristine lake when they happened upon a hand-drawn sign: “For Sale.” The “S” was actually a painted, hissing rattlesnake. They stopped in, walked the island, toured the log cabin, and fell in love with the place. The photos Dad took that day were now part of the presentation, and began a series of images that recall our fun cottage days.

  There were photos of my siblings and of me doing what my kids are doing now, hanging out with friends on the dock or cottage porch, water-skiing, swimming, and canoeing. Throughout the 1970s, our family would join our cousins on an annual week-long canoe trip. Here was shared fun, hardship, and camaraderie. I was glad my own children were watching these old photos, appreciating what we had done as a family and recognizing in our canoe trips the important family values that could be learned — those that stay with you for life. I felt that they would be impressed with how tough and adventurous their dad and grandparents were.

  Apparently not.

  “You used to have a mullet,” my son says accusingly. I cringe at the photo that shows the shaggy hair that falls down my shoulders from underneath a flat-top leather hat.

  “Nice pants, Dad,” chastises my oldest daughter. “Geeky!”

  “They were the style back then.” I try to defend myself, although I realize I am fighting a losing battle — she is right. Here is a photo of me carrying the canoe with these bell-bottom jeans on. The pants seem inappropriately tight through the midsection, so much so that it is a wonder I ever had kids myself. Then the legs sweep out in a wide bell shape that hides my entire feet — I could have been wearing high heels for all you could tell … I wasn’t!

  “At least Grandpa was cool,” the children point out as they see a photo of my dad carrying a big canvas pack, decked out in peg leg pants, a checkered shirt, hair slicked back, and sleek dark shades, “at one time.”

  A photo of Grandma in a 70s-style bikini gets exclamations of appreciation. Not so, Grandpa in his Speedo on swim rock. Now it is he who is trying to defend himself. “It was the style — better than the baggy, oversized shorts you kids swim in today.” Sorry, Dad, but no.

  Then there is a photo of my mom’s twin, Uncle John. A nice, tranquil, mood-driven canoe trip shot — he is having an early morning coffee by the open fire as mist rises from a lake. My children begin to heckle his checkered, polyester pants, but here I shut them down and tell them not to be rude. I mean, fun is fun, but this hits a little too close to home. I think he still wears them on the golf course.

  It Is a Dog’s Life

  Timba hates when the children are in the water. When she hears a splash, she responds immediately. It does not matter whether she is dead asleep, curled nose under tail beneath the big pine, when the kids venture onto swim rock Timba comes running. She paces back and forth, trying to coax them to dry land.

  Huskies are not keen water dogs, not like retrievers or collies. They are made for the cold and snow, a time when getting wet is not a great idea. Swimming to a husky is an act of folly. When the children return to shore Timba greets them with a face wash. She attempts to reason with them. When everyone is out of the lake and towelling themselves dry, Timba returns to her pine.

  Charlie is a hound, a big, sad-eyed, wrinkly-faced, drooling bloodhound. He accompanies my sister’s family when they visit. Charlie is in love with Timba and her blue eyes, so he tries to impress her by howling in her face. He corners her, and with his jowls quivering inches away, he howls. “Barooo, barooo, barooo!” Timba squints her eyes and lays her ears back, not totally enamoured with this crinkly, foul-breathed Casanova. Charlie doesn’t listen much. He hears “No, Charlie” a thousand times in a day. You could be saying, “It’s a fine day today, Charlie” for all he cares. Still, he is cute, in a very ugly sort of way.

  My dad recently got a fancy new slide scanner, and he has been going through a half-century of family photos and putting them on disks that we can view on his television. As much of that family time has been spent at the cottage, many of the pictures are of us spending time on the island, slowly growing up. Through the thirty-three years of our cottage time, dogs have always appeared in the photos.

  When my parents bought the place there was Bismarck, a short-legged, long-eared basset hound who trotted around the island paths going nowhere fast. His nose was too good for us kids in a game of hide-and-seek. When we went canoeing, he would sit dolefully in the middle of the canoe with his ample chops resting on the gunnels. When we ventured to the cabin in winter, he had to hop through the drifts on short legs. My brother and I would wince as he dragged his dangling parts through the crusty March snow, and then we would wince again as we watched him thaw himself by the fire.

  My uncle John and his family would join us at the cottage with Toulouse, Bismarck’s brother — and then, for a reason I can only put down to a mid-life crisis, after Toulouse passed on, in came Shawnee Marie, a prim and lanky Afghan. Uncle John would stand on the dock with a morning coffee, his hair messed, unshaven, dishevelled, with this groomed princess sitting prissily at his feet.

  Two more bassets, Spencer (my parents’) and Fred (my sister’s), visited the cottage for a while. They hated each other, and would roll around in a fur flying fit of fury whenever they met. When Fred came in the front door of the cabin, Spencer was shuffled out the back.

  For many, dogs are a big part of their cottage days, adding to the wonderful spirit of the place.

  Duke was a springer spaniel who was half loon. He would dive for rocks that were four feet deep on the lake bottom, and then build little rock cairns around the island. You could toss a rock into the boulder-strewn shallows in the bay, and he would dive in, stick his head under the water, and return with the same stone. Then there was Matty, a sweet and pretty Australian shepherd–border collie cross. My sister had gotten it right with this one. Matty would stay to the outside of the circle of children, shepherding them, whether they were playing in the forest or swimming in the lake. She would paddle around the bay for hours, always protecting, always smiling.

  When I wrote the column about the death of a family dog earlier this summer, I got more feedback than for any other story, all with anecdotes of the readers’ own beloved canines. One family had a wooden cross in the ground at their summer retreat, on which they hung the collars of the dogs that had graced their cottage li
ves. When they sold their cottage and bought a new one, the cross moved with them.

  For many families, dogs are big part of their cottage days, adding to the wonderful spirit of the place. The only mistake in their makeup is that their lifespan is much too short. Any other shortcomings they may have are of our own doing.

  Cottage Renovations

  Cottage renovations are a tricky business, dependant upon such things as the remoteness of the location, access, and the ability to bring in contractors. Scheduling an electrician or plumber might delay a project for a couple of summers. Trying to get the fabulous interior design specialists John and Jon in for a consultation is impossible during blackfly season. Ultimately, having the skills of a handyman can be an essential part of being a cottage owner. Unfortunately, these skills have avoided me, but I do have talented family and friends, and I am not averse to inviting them to the cottage for a weekend’s relaxation.

  Our log cabin cottage was built in 1924 by a logger, purportedly for his young mistress. Two things came out of this history. Firstly, the log construction of the cottage is beautiful, with huge hand-hewn timber harvested locally. Secondly, though the logger’s mistress must have had certain attributes that pleased him enough to build this humble but magnificent cabin on a remote rocky island for her, lofty stature was not one of them. The kitchen counters and sink were seemingly constructed for someone who might have helped send Dorothy off down the yellow brick road.

  For a time I was able to use the cabinetry’s short dimensions to advantage. When my wife would ask for my help with the evening dishes, I would pitch in for a few brief seconds and then wince in agony, grit my teeth, and grimace in extreme pain, grabbing for my lower back. My darling spouse would help me to the front porch chair, all the while apologizing for being so thoughtless, for she knew I suffered from chronic back pain. She would make sure I was comfortable, offer me an after-dinner medicinal aperitif, and then return to her solitary chore.

  I believe I’m being smart in my shirking. In retrospect, I think my wife had a plan all along, a blueprint to get me to agree to a kitchen re-do, to make this part of the cottage more functional and to update the circa 1960 kitchen accents and decor. Things were working perfectly, until, on one such evening, I carried the “bad back” charade too far and unwittingly made the comment, “If only the kitchen counter and sinks were constructed at a proper height.”

  Immediately, as if she had long been patiently waiting for such an error in judgment, my wife dropped a heap of kitchen renovation literature into my lap: “Martha Stewart’s Cottage Kitchens,” “Kitchens and Bathrooms,” “Kitchen and Outhouse Designs,” and “Dr. Phil Reveals — How to Get Your Husband to Share in More of the Household Duties.” I had opened my big mouth, and now I was trapped.

  And so began the cottage kitchen renovation. My brother-in-law and sister joined us in the venture. He had a leather pouch around his waist from which dangled all his tools. I filled my jean pockets with nails, only to scream in agony when I bent over. I actually enjoyed the demolition, attacking the old cabinets and framework with a pry bar, jumping quickly on any long-lost coins that appeared, and reminiscing over any memorabilia that turned up from our youthful cottage days.

  After we had torn everything apart, it came time to rebuild. We first laid down a rich red slate tile floor. With my chainsaw and drawknife, I was put in charge of the kitchen framework, which we had decided would be done in cedar log. The ladies worked outside in the sunshine fiercely whacking away at a solid pine countertop with a chain — “distressing” the wood for an antique look — something they had apparently learned from the John and Jon show. When I commented that they should be good at distressing things, I was forced to dart around the cabin, running for my life just ahead of two chain-wielding maniacs. My brother-in-law laughed at my predicament. He was in charge of the finicky finishing work.

  An aged pier piling foraged from the relics of an old dam that once controlled the river inlet at the north end of the lake was hung from the cottage’s kitchen ceiling with logging chains. Here, utensils, pots, and cast iron cookware hang from hooks high above the central kitchen island. It is a unique and charming piece of timber, sculpted from years of water rushing over it.

  At the end of the day, we sat back pleased with what we had accomplished: a functional, charming, and rustic kitchen that fit in well with the atmosphere of the cottage.

  Cottaging on a remote island can provide certain obstacles. One can not so readily hop in the car and head to town for a box of nails or the lumber for a cottage project. The marvellous sense of isolation peculiar to island cottages demands self-sufficiency and forethought.

  While some cottages are really second homes, lakeside dwellings with all of the comforts, we prefer the charming rusticity of a low-maintenance escape. It is comfortable and homey, and reflects the happiness born of years of summer fun.

  Our Garden Patch

  Two ravens sat on a branch outside the cottage window. They sat close together while the wind rustled their head feathers and they shifted the grip of their feet. I was supposed to be working, but instead watched them with interest. These birds had always fascinated me, ever since my young days when I read Edgar Allan Poe.

  The image of the raven sitting black against a bleak sky on the gnarled branch of a twisted, dead tree is ingrained in our subconscious — as much an image of horror as the thunderstorm outside the creepy, abandoned, haunted house on the hill. They mix hoarse screeches and squawks with deep-throated gurgles and garbles, while hiding in thick spruce treetops. Their human-like language is interesting in the day and spooky after dark. Their intelligence is uncanny. I have watched them steal my dog’s food from his dish. One raven will hop up to the resting husky and pull on his tail. As the dog lurches unsuccessfully for the bird, another will swoop in to heist a kibble. Then they switch assignments.

  These two large crows on the branch seemed to be scheming. They were staring out towards our little cottage garden patch, where my wife has tried to cultivate a few herbs, rhubarb, some lettuce, and green onions. This is no easy feat at the best of times. In fact, some would say that it is an act of folly, trying to maintain a garden anywhere in cottage country, where you are battling the Canadian Shield. She is trying to plant and maintain a garden on our three-acre mound of rock and pine, on an infertile island situated in the middle of a lake in the northern woods. The ground is nothing but a plush bed of needles and moss.

  Still, she has tried. We pack over some bags of topsoil each spring and mix it with compost. We weed and plant, and weed some more. We gather stones from the lake bottom to border our patch of soil. We bring up water from the lake each day in our watering can and keep the plants wet. And the garden grows. It is great to be able to pick some lettuce for sandwiches or salads, or to harvest some herbs for the evening stew.

  Then, there are the ravens. They see the garden as their own personal buffet. My wife sees all her stubborn, hard work being undermined by these birds, whom she has tried just about everything to outwit.

  The other day I looked out from the cabin to the garden patch and was horrified to see myself amongst the basil and leafy vegetables, arms outstretched in a hideous manner. A floppy hat hid my face, but I could tell it was me by the manner in which I was dressed — in my good plaid shirt and my favourite ripped and torn pair of faded Levi’s.

  The grotesque likeness scared me, but apparently not the ravens, who flew down and perched themselves on the rigid arms. They sat calmly surveying the little garden and contemplating their lunch. At that moment my gentle wife came running up from the dock, flailing her arms and screaming like a banshee. The glossy black birds scattered in fright, winging it for the forest. Her actions panicked me as well, and I backpedalled from the window towards the safety of the cottage depths.

  My wife’s frightful success in scaring off the birds, where my scarecrow likeness propped amongst the vegetables had failed, caused me to later unwittingly suggest that perhaps
she should spend more time standing in the garden. Oops … “If I only had a brain!”

  Chirpy’s Diner

  I have been battling with a squirrel all day. I know what you’re thinking, how could someone with my advanced intellect have any trouble outwitting a little rodent? It is a point well made, but he is a persistent little beggar.

  I bought a new bird feeder for the cottage. It is called a Planet Earth Feeder, and has a spaceship design and a sloping copper roof. It also brags about holding six pounds of seed, which means I won’t have to pull the ladder out as often. A weekly sanitary wipe down and a refill is all that is required. I also checked out the design with its slippery sloped metal roof, and decided that old Chirpy the squirrel would never figure this out.

  It took him about one minute and twenty-two seconds.

  I had hung the feeder in the fork of a long, slender branch, about twelve feet off the ground, filled it with sunflower seeds, and then I went into the cottage to brag about it to my wife. “I have finally found a squirrel-proof feeder,” I said. “I’ve finally won over Chirpy — victory is mine!”

  I led my wife to the cabin window and gave her a cocky “Ta-dah!” while pointing out the dangling feed station. She saw Chirpy sitting in it chewing on seeds, smiling, his bushy tail held erect like a victory pennant.

  I ran out, throwing sticks and pine cones in his general direction. He chirped merrily away. I moved the feeder out farther on the slender branch, as far as I dared with its six pounds of seed. The squirrel ran out a side stringer and stretched his slender body across to the perch, using his tiny front feet to pull himself aboard.

  I pruned back the side branches. Chirpy ran out on an upper branch, using his weight to drop it down like a drawbridge, landing him gracefully on the seed. I trimmed the upper branch. Chirpy pulled on some spandex leotards (or should have) and did his best Cirque du Soleil impression. He swung off a higher branch like a trapeze artist, before tucking his body and acrobatically performing a double revolving somersault, landing lightly amongst the birdseed.