Still in a Daze at the Cottage
Page 1
For Alexander Duncan Ross (Sandy)
(1958–2005)
You are missed!
Contents
Foreword
Prologue: Back to the Cottage
In the Great Outdoors — On Nature
Good for the Goose
The Robin Returns
Everyone Out of the Water!
Dangerous Critters
Bit in the Ash (By a Flicker in the Fire)
The Sword of Damocles
The Pine Marten
Chirpy Strikes Back
I Heard a Robin Call My Name
The Seven Day Itch
The Frog Whisperer
Twilight at the Cottage
Being Green
A Beaver Tail
Wet and Wild — Cottage Fun
Fifty Shades of Cottaging
The Newest Rage
Within the Cottage Wood
The Cottage Fleet
Dressing Up for Kayaking
Slow Boat across the Shield
The Hobby
Who Stole My Balls?
Upside Down on the River Noire
The Ninja Warrior
Shaken, Not Stirred
Diving for Treasure
The Cottagers — Family and Friends
Fathers and Daughters
Life’s Stages
On Golden Pond
My Friend Danny
The Dock
Cuts and Bruises
Grandmothers
The Return of Inspector Gadget
The Boyfriend Cometh
Of Doorbells, Docking, and Mishaps in the Night
A Cottage Dunking
Those Great Cottage Days of Summer
A Tear for Summer’s End
My Big Brother
The Funeral Wreath
The Cottage — Life at the Lake
The Lake
All for a Blueberry Pie
Cottage Prepping
The Chair
Tools of the Trade
Muskoka Time
Sounds of the Cottage
Cottage Top Ten
The Bookshelf
The Perfect Day
A Taste of the Highlands
The Ants Go Marching
Cottage Fashion
Summer Reflections
Cottage Questions
Who’ll Stop the Rain
A Room with a View
In the Eye of the Storm
The Canoe
Epilogue: It’s Closing Time
Foreword
I sit on the covered wood porch of our log cabin in a hewn-log rocking chair with a Siberian husky asleep at my feet. On the header above the front door is a sign with the Gaelic words Croich Na Rosach: This is the refuge of the Rosses. For forty years now it has been my family’s place of escape; a refuge and our sanctuary.
Beyond the cottage porch is the lake, whose waves break gently on our rocky shoreline. A song sparrow sings from an overhead branch, my robin hops about looking for worms, and a pair of loons paddle about the bay hooting softly; but for the quiet murmur of the birds, the soft breathing of my dog, and the sounds of the water, there is silence.
Timelessness, isolation, and simplicity create our space. Here we have time to think, time to read, and plenty of time for contemplation. We go down to the dock and stare vacantly over the water. We perform insignificant tasks without conscience nagging us with guilt. Our lives seem to slow down, we have time with our kids that we don’t have at home. We read with them, play a board game, go fishing, or just talk. More amazing, perhaps, is that they also find time for us. As musician Jimmy Buffet would say, we are living here in three-quarter time. If our clock stopped, what would it matter?
This place has been my summer haven for most of my life, and wherever the changes of my life have taken me, this cottage has remained my spiritual home. It is a place where I always return. It has a long familiarity in which every tree and rock and building comforts me. Every sound reassures me.
This book of stories, in the same spirit of my first collection, Cottage Daze, is about life at my log cabin cottage on an island in the middle of a northern lake, about the people I share it with, and the animals and nature that add depth and humour to our lives. In writing my stories I have never divulged the location of our own island cottage. This is from no desire to create mystery — it would be easy enough for the curious to discover where I live — rather, in the description of my cottage and all that goes on there, the reader might find the likeness of their own such place. That is my goal: my cottage is your cottage.
Welcome and enjoy … this is life at the cottage!
Prologue: Back to the Cottage
The sun is shining. The forecast had been for thunder showers, high winds, and cool temperatures. Granted, Environment Canada has been known to be wrong at times, but they never seem to err in a positive way. I jump from my bed and dash to the window, pulling back the drapes. The sky is blue, not a cloud in sight. I am greeted by a beautiful, warm, brilliant morning. What a day to open the cottage.
My wife had risen early and put breakfast on — bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee. I holler for the kids, “Let’s get up, time to go!”
“They’re already up and out,” says my wife. “Getting things loaded in the truck.” Sometimes they make me so proud. I head out myself and whistle for the two dogs. They come running and leap into the back of the pickup, slipping quickly into their kennels and settling down for the drive.
The journey to the cottage passes quickly. My wife stays awake and talks to me. The children watch the passing scenery out the window. I am not even treated like a remote control for the truck stereo. No, “Go to disc four, skip this song, or replay that song.” No, “Turn it up, I can’t hear!” Not even any yelps from my son directed at his sisters to, “Shut-up and quit singing!” In fact, we listen to old John Denver CDs, and everyone sings and laughs. Before we know it, we are at the lake.
I back the boat into the water. I turn the key and the engine starts immediately. We load things up and start across the lake, now smooth as glass. This strikes me as a little odd, as a pleasant breeze is blowing, mercifully keeping the blackflies away. I think of this incongruence only briefly, as my anxiety is focussed firmly on the island and the cabin. What disasters has Mother Nature wrought? What animals have invaded our domain? What trees have fallen in the winter winds, those that had stooped dangerously over the cottage roof — the trees I meant to fell in the fall?
Everything is perfect. The dock has stood up nicely to the thick lake ice, not slipping at all from its crib. The birch and pine trees beside the cottage stand regal and tall, swaying gracefully in the wind. Inside the cottage, everything seems as we left it in October. The mice have not found their way in. There are no nests to clean up, no droppings, not even a spiderweb to dust away. I stand in shock; my wife gives me a little squeeze.
I hook up the propane tanks and fire up the fridge. I take the metal screens off the windows, and then put the pump together. I pull on the handle and water gushes out. My children help sweep and rake, and then they carry the Muskoka chairs down to the dock. Without being told, they settle at the kitchen table to catch up on some homework.
“You’ve done enough for today,” says my wife. “It must be the cocktail hour.”
I raise the flag, and then settle into my chair. I’m handed a beer in a frosty mug. A family of loons swims around our little bay. The scene is postcard perfect. The sun is warm on my face, making me sleepy. I listen to the snap of the flag, beating in the wind. The waves crash on the shore, sounding like rain pelting against our bedroom window back home—
And the crash of t
hunder wakes me with a start. My wife elbows me and asks, “Where’s my coffee?” I hear the children yelling at each other in their bedrooms, “Quiet! I’m trying to sleep! DAD, Sean’s bugging us!”
I struggle to my feet, stiff, sore, disoriented, and in a daze. My wife asks if I’m all right. I open the curtains and am greeted by the flash of lightning. The wind howls, driving the rain against the house.
“I just had a bit of a nightmare,” I tell her. “It was sickening — everyone was acting weird.”
“Is the weather okay to head to the cottage?” she asks.
“It’s perfect. Are you ready for an adventure?”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ve been dreaming about this day all winter.”
In the Great Outdoors —
On Nature
I guess it is inevitable, when you take people out of their comfortable city homes and return them to a little more natural environment at the cottage, then mix in a dash of nature and a pinch of wildlife, that you have a situation ripe for humour!
Good for the Goose
In nature’s scheme, spring is a time of new life, and our cottage environment puts us in touch with this daily. Millions of creatures are born — groundhog, beaver, muskrat, mink, marten, mouse, otter, deer, and wolf. The migrating birds have returned and gather their sticks and twigs for nests. Some settle for the cottage eaves, holes in trees, or the sweeping branches of the beautiful shade trees that support our hammock. Others will move into the nesting boxes that we charitably supply. Water birds have hidden in the lakeside thickets that fringe our cottage shoreline, the mothers sitting cautious and still.
Soon, broods of goslings, ducklings, merganser chicks, and baby loons appear, gracing our serene bays, following clumsily after their mothers along shores, hitching a ride on a parent’s back, or swimming single file behind their guardian.
As such, spring is a wonderful time of the year for watching wildlife. The young are out in force, and there is a certain beauty in observing the rearing and development of even the commonest of animals. The Canada geese that we seldom look at twice — only noticing them when we curse them as we gingerly wade through the minefield of their goosey deposits on shore — suddenly become the focus of our fascination when they have a young gaggle of goslings in tow.
Such is the case each spring. We don’t even get a glimpse of the youngsters at first, but can tell from the posturing of their parents that they have arrived. The gander will stand on guard at the shore, neck arched in a display of aggressiveness. The mother feeds while he watches, and then the roles are reversed. Never will they graze at the same time.
This year, for two nights running, we are awakened from our sleep by the honking and squawking of the panicked geese. Then, when the tiny goslings make their first appearance, we are saddened that there are only two, when usually there are six or eight. Perhaps the blame lies with the gulls, who seem to be hanging around in large numbers. Or, maybe it is the great blue heron that stalks the shores. Certainly the loons cannot be blamed this time, as the baby geese are not even old enough to get their feet wet. With the two surviving goslings it is much easier to become attached.
We watch them each morning; they seem to double in size daily. They are precocious brats, seemingly intent on giving their parents a hard time. The two demons wait until their protective parents look away and then run for it. One scampers across the little wooden bridge that crosses the inlet stream, seemingly moving faster than possible with his small and scrawny legs. The female honks and waddles after him. This gives the other gosling the opportunity to try his own escape, running awkwardly in the other direction along the shoreline. The holy terrors seem to be laughing as they put their mother through misery. Maybe it is no longer politically correct to peck one’s offspring, and this has led to such troublesome behaviour in the youngsters. Mother goose gathers the delinquent twins back in, and then peers out over the bay with a look of annoyance, perhaps feeling that the parental care is becoming a little one-sided.
When the male returns from his feeding, she seems to be chastising him before she waddles off for her own dinner. The gander stands there stupidly, trying to understand. I feel badly for him, but his attentions are soon taken up by the two active brats. Perhaps, once again, nature has gotten things right, a brood of eight goslings would have been far too exhausting for the parents to rear, and for us to watch.
The Robin Returns
The lunatic robin has returned. That stark raving insane bird that spent a spring day hurtling herself at my cottage window a couple of years ago is back and as nutty as ever. I know what you’re thinking: “How does he know it’s the same bird?” Well, it’s the look in her eye and the way she moves her beak, mouthing words.
Okay, before you start thinking that I’m actually the crazy one, let me explain. Shortly after we opened up the cottage this year, I was up puttering around, getting everything shipshape for summer. I was fixing some dock boards when I looked over at our boat and noticed a small nest built on one of the pontoons underneath the bow deck. Oh no, thought I, I had better lose the nest before it’s put to use. I peeked in and realized it was too late; three blue eggs had been laid inside. Dumb bird, I thought. What kind of cuckoo would build a nest here? Had she wanted lakefront property?
I looked around and spied the female robin standing on a tree branch staring at me. Her eyes were two fiery coals. Her beak was opening and shutting and, though I’m no expert at reading lips, or beaks, I had no doubt as to what she was saying: “Touch those eggs, and you’re dead.” It was unmistakable, and, as if that wasn’t enough, she lifted a wing and drew it across her neck, just above her red breast. I was horrified. I knew my robin had returned.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I grabbed my bird book and looked up the gestation period for robins — fourteen days. Add two weeks to rear the chicks and my boat would be unusable for a month. I sat back in despair and looked out the window, then jumped with a screech. Mommy dearest was staring in at me.
“Think, think,” I told myself — it can’t be that hard to outwit a bird. I built a little wood table about the same height off the ground as the nest on its pontoon perch. My plan was to shift the nest onto the table and then gradually move the table to a nearby tree. I set the table against the boat and, with work gloves, gently lifted the little nest onto the table, all the while watching for the mother robin, sure that I would feel her sharp beak stabbing into my neck at any time.
I stood back and watched the robin return to the pontoon, then dance around wailing inconsolably. She didn’t seem to recognize that her nest was only a foot away. She suddenly went silent, craned her neck my way, and fixed me with an evil stare. I ran into the cabin. When things seemed to settle down, I bravely snuck back with a little plank, which I rested between table and pontoon, then shifted the nest there. I ran back into the cabin, slammed the door, and locked it, exhaling a heavy sigh of relief. I peeked out through the window. The mother had returned to the pontoon, but didn’t seem to realize that her eggs were mere inches away. “How stupid can you be?” I yelled, but immediately ducked down when she threw a demonic glare my way.
When I saw her return to the trees, I ran out and nudged the nest back on its rightful resting place, removed the table and board, and dashed back inside. I had convinced myself that I didn’t really need to use the boat until July. I tried to avoid the dock area as I worked around the cottage for the next few days. I did see the robin staring at me from time to time, usually from atop the new wood table I had built for her. It often looked like her beak was opening and shutting. “Stupid, crazy human,” she seemed to be saying.
Everyone Out of the Water!
I was having my morning coffee on the dock while watching my family of mergansers swim lazily through our bay, a pretty female with five youngsters in tow. Yes, you heard me correctly, I did say my family. After all, the hatchlings were born and reared in my nesting box, making me feel somewhat responsible for their care. Okay,
you have a point, I don’t actually take an active part in the ducklings’ education, feeding, or general development — but neither does their true dad. Anyway, you’re distracting me from my story here.
As I was saying, here were my youngsters drifting towards the island shoreline while I smiled out on them, impressed by their growth. My babies had doubled in size in the last week. I did keep a wary eye on a gull sitting nearby on a stump, wondering if she might be eyeing up the youngsters for breakfast. She showed no interest; the ducklings were obviously too big now.
The family paddled beneath the gull’s perch, everything tranquil and beautiful. Then, there came a loud squeal from the startled mom merganser, a screech so piercing that it caused the chicks to flee fearfully into the willows on shore, the gull to fall backwards off its perch and smacking its head, and me to spill coffee on my lap. I had little time to wonder about the cause of the commotion, as almost immediately a sleek loon popped out of the water where the brood had just been swimming.
I was dumbfounded! I had heard that loons would take ducklings, but had refused to believe that a bird of such beauty and grace could have a dark side. Surely the elegant loons simply feast on ugly old fish, and supplement their diet with those darn minnows that hang around our dock pilings and like to nibble on my tender toes during evening swims.
I did think it fascinating that the female merganser had sensed the loon attack. Did she spy the dark shape of the loon torpedoing through the water, or had she, perhaps, simply heard that ominous music. You know, the John Williams Jaws two-note tuba theme — ba-dum ... ba-dum ... ba-dum, Ba-Dum, Ba-Dum, BA-DUM! — the music builds to a crescendo, and then, there goes your leg. I remember watching the movie Jaws as a young teenager, and then hearing that musical score when I fell water- skiing, out in the middle of the lake — ba-dum ... ba-dum ... ba-dum.... I’d draw my legs up tight underneath me and will the boat to pick me up quickly, sure that I would be tugged under at any moment. Hey, I was an impressionable kid, and obviously not a very bright one. Who knew that great white sharks didn’t lurk in our lake’s dark depths?