Still in a Daze at the Cottage

by Ross, James 1744-1827;

  Shaken, Not Stirred

  I don’t know about you, but whenever I’m doing something active and exciting, I hear the James Bond theme song playing in my head. You know, like when I’m downhill skiing, the familiar John Barry movie score reverberates in my noggin, so I tuck and race towards the fellow in the one-piece yellow ski suit, ready to bong him with my ski pole. Surely, dressed like that, he must work for Ernst Stavro Blofeld.

  When I’m driving down the winding road to the cottage, I suddenly imagine that my Dodge truck is actually an Aston Martin. I push down the pedal and make squealing tire noises with my mouth as we fishtail around curves. My wife, recognizing the signs, wallops me with the rolled up magazine she is reading, and the music inexplicitly stops.

  When I’m touring up the lake in our boat at a reasonably leisurely pace, suddenly the music starts and I push the throttle down, weaving erratically between islands and shoals. Then, when I’m skiing behind the boat, the same common ditty invades my brain and I slice my one ski sharply through a plume of spray and bear down on a nearby fishing boat, ready to pull my Walther PPK out of my swim trunks. I’m not fooled, the fellow fishing is undoubtedly an evil agent of SPECTRE.

  I often hear the tune when I’m snorkelling off the point, and it makes me keep a keen eye out for Largo and his henchmen, and then I hear it again when I’m looking down at the water from the knoll at swim rock, too timid to jump while my kids heckle my indecision — suddenly the music starts in my head, and I launch myself into a graceful swan dive.

  What can I say? I remember seeing my first Bond flick as an impressionable youngster when my family was camping at Pinery Provincial Park on Lake Huron, and my parents took us to see Thunderball at the drive-in theatre near Grand Bend. For weeks afterward, my siblings and I ran through the sandy dunes pretending to be secret agents. We had to take turns being Bond, even though the character seemed to fit me best. In fact, I took to introducing myself as Ross, James Ross, and to having my orange Kool-Aid shaken, not stirred.

  My older brother didn’t mind being the evil maniac who wanted to take over the world. My sister wanted to be Moneypenny, but we thought she was better suited as Klebb, the Russian agent with the stiletto sticking out of her shoe. (Though we did get in trouble for the taped on bread knife.) My kid brother was perfect as Oddjob, because he was younger and shorter, and has always been, well, odd. Now, as I sit relaxing on the dock at our cottage, I see my kids playing the same secret agent game, and I wonder if they, too, hear the musical score.

  Some of you might think me crazy — hearing theme music in my head. Others will simply recognize that I am a Bond aficionado. I’ve seen every Bond film a number of times, read all of Ian Fleming’s novels as a teenager sitting on the cabin’s front porch, and have, many times, got into the debate over the best Bond actor. Have I told you that my son is named Sean?

  My kids are finished their imaginary Bond game and are off doing something else. My darling wife is floating around on an air mattress in our little bay, the sun on her back, a good book in her hands. Unfortunately for her, the James Bond music starts playing in my head. I slip silently into the water off the end of the dock and stealthily swim towards her. I see her as the evil Electra King, here to destroy the serenity of cottage country. I dive quietly below the surface, and then drive up hard, capsizing her into the lake. I have rescued the world yet again!

  My angry spouse doesn’t seem to appreciate my bravery, however, and the Bond theme is replaced by a certain ringing in my ears. I had saved the world, now who was going to save me?

  Diving for Treasure

  I found out about the supply ship that had run aground and then sunk in the lake off our island’s eastern tip when I had Googled “How to fool your kids and keep them entertained at the cottage for hours.”

  I had run across an old newspaper article in the archives of a never-before-heard-about newspaper and printed it. It told the story of an old wooden schooner called the Greennose, which had helped supply the logging camps that had sprung up in the early 1900s along the northern and western arms of our lake. On the day of the tragic sinking, with all hands lost, the Greennose was bringing in food, supplies, and gold bullion from a nearby mine to meet the monthly payroll of the lumber camps.

  The supply ship had wrecked during a fierce storm on the deadly shallow shoal that lies hidden beneath the waves some thirty metres off our shore. The hidden rocks remain an annoyance to boaters and those trolling for trout, and in our clear lake waters, the shoal is also a great place to snorkel. All kinds of lures are hooked on the shallow rocks. Fishing tackle is one thing, but the wreck of an old schooner? The kids were fascinated by the story. What youngster wouldn’t be excited about the prospect of sunken treasure and untold riches?

  After every nasty storm or strong blow, I tell the kids that it is a great day to don mask and fins to head out exploring. The storm will have churned up the lake bottom, I tell them, potentially washing up new treasure on the underwater rocks. We sit out on our point and watch the kids swimming around. Now and again they dive down, and then return to the surface blowing water sharply from their snorkels. They hold a piece of treasure, an exciting find, up above their heads. It is amazing what the hunters discover — broken deck planks from the ship, rusted iron doors, huge links of broken chain. They dive to the bottom and bring up all sorts of antiquities: broken pottery and plates from the galley, fancy crockery, pewter chalices, and huge metal serving dishes.

  The kids clean and organize the pieces and try to find clues as to whether they indeed came from that doomed vessel, the Greennose. Some pieces have obviously been at the bottom of the lake for decades, so corroded or covered by the white blotches of oxidation are they. Some pottery is engraved. This platter is from England — must have been on the wrecked ship. This metal plate was made in China — must have been left on the ice by those ice fishing. This elaborate candlestick must have been from the Greennose. How else would it have ended up on our shoal?

  The youngsters try to piece together the mystery of the sunken supply schooner, and try to figure out a strategy for finding that ultimate prize, the gold bullion meant to be paid to the loggers. Well, the more exciting find for my son would seem not to be the gold, but rather the intact skeletons of the ship’s crew. “Wouldn’t that be cool for scaring my friends at Halloween?”

  This morning my wife and I are up early and out for a paddle before the kids wake. Stowed on board our canoe is a crate full of thrift store knick-knacks — some tin wine goblets, a heavy metal platter with the image of an old sailing vessel on it, some candlesticks, a couple of ceramic steins, a few clay pots and plates, and some assorted pieces of jewellery. We drop them into the lake around the shallow shoal, scattering the loot some twelve feet deep amongst the boulders and submerged granite shelf. We return to the dock to enjoy our morning coffee.

  Imagination and dreams are wonderful things for children to possess, treasures that the simplicity of life at the cottage helps to cultivate.

  The Cottagers —

  Family and Friends

  Our cottage experience is shaped by the people we share it with. The guests we invite to our cottage, good friends and family alike, are those that we care enough about to want to share our favourite place on earth. The good ones do not simply take from the experience, but rather add to it.

  Fathers and Daughters

  “Is it all right if I have some friends up to the cottage, Dad?” asks my eighteen-year-old daughter.

  I’m immediately wary and on the defensive. “What kind of friends?”

  “Oh, you know, just a few close friends, nobody special.”

  I recollect an incident at home last winter, when we had been away at a hockey tournament for the weekend, and this same daughter had stayed home. She had asked if she could have a couple of girlfriends spend the night. We had agreed, knowing the sweet friends she mentioned would cause no problems.

  It didn’t take a great detective to know, almo
st immediately upon our return, that some foul game had been afoot. Yes, the house was immaculately tidy, the dishes done and carpets vacuumed. That was our first clue. Then, when I turned on the back porch light to peer out on the beautiful winter’s evening, I was greeted with the horrid sight of graffiti. Artists had written their names in the snow, in yellow, like a pack of territorial hounds. I found signatures scrawled in the white fluffy bank that hedged the back deck and in the snow on either side of my walkway. I was appalled because the spelling was not the best, and I was angry because I knew that a certain amount of liquid refreshments had to have been consumed to have accomplished this. Still, I must admit, I was impressed with the unbroken length of the words — true talent was at work.

  The hot tub had lost a quarter of its water, it was splashed and frozen over the back picture window. There was evidence that an army of visitors had jumped from the tub to roll in the snow in a feeble attempt to make angels. Devils more likely!

  “People over? Of course not, Dad,” she had said in her sweetest talk-to-daddy voice.

  “Not people, exactly, honey, more like virile canines, marking their territory, rolling in the snow or curling up for a winter’s nap, nose tucked under tail. Or, if they were human, perhaps just male friends with the names of Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest!”

  Friends at the cottage? It’s been a family place for so long now, and that has been the real joy of the place. But you know the time is coming. First the girls have a few girlfriends up, and then they want a few friends of the other variety. Then, they want to have friends up while we stay away! I have two beautiful teenage daughters now, with a third growing up fast and not far behind.

  Daughters are special. They dote on their dads. They look after you when you’re left on your own. They forgive your lack of fashion sense, your naivete, your technological ignorance, your geeky music preference, and your lack of domestic polish. They will give you a smile, a hug, a kiss that will melt your heart. They love you solely and unconditionally, and as they grow, they think for a good time that other boys are stupid. You encourage this. Then they come and ask whether Dumb and Dumber can come up to the cottage.

  Whether at the cottage or at home, I know that there will be times of worry. I guess you just have to trust them, to put faith in the hope that you raised them well. When I was in my teenage years, life followed the same process. I guess that is exactly what scares me. I know how my mind worked in those days. And now, it’s payback time!

  Life’s Stages

  My second daughter graduates tonight from Grade 8. Unfortunately, work has taken me away, and I will miss the ceremony. That makes me sad. I hate to miss such special family occasions. I especially hate to miss it because I’m a veteran now, having been through the agony of watching my oldest teeter around on stage two years ago in high heels that were new to her. I had suddenly recognized her as a beautiful young lady, in a striking dress that had me fearing for my future.

  I imagine my second daughter, with her pretty smile, walking elegantly and purposefully across the stage to receive her diploma, along with so many other daughters and sons, their parents looking up at them with that unusual mixture of pride and fear. Pride for what they have accomplished. A touch of fear for the recognition that they are maturing so quickly.

  Our children seem to grow up slowly before our eyes, so slowly that our brains do not always register that it is happening. It takes a special night like this, when they come out in that attractive dress or handsome suit, their hair done, new shoes, and proud smile, that it suddenly hits us — our young children have grown up.

  Is it not scary how fast life is flying by? I remember my parents always lamenting how fast time sped past, but I never appreciated that until I had children myself. It doesn’t seem very long ago at all, since the children were born and it was us starting a new chapter of our lives. Now, this ceremony represents the end of one of life’s many stages for them.

  Soon, all our children will be embarking on their own journeys. Friends, work, and then family commitments will take them away, and lessen our time together. The house will seem empty, and the cottage will seem quiet.

  I envision my wife and me sitting alone on the dock, looking at each other, and not knowing quite what to do. We might even start talking about birds, looking at them through binoculars at the feeders, and arguing over what type of bird we see. Sure, there are times during the hectic, busy, everyday chaos of life with children that you dream of such a scenario, time together with your spouse, alone, at the cottage. There are other times when such a thought might horrify you.

  Will we be the same two people we were when we first met, what seems like forever ago — the same fun-loving couple we were when we got married? Will we find the same pleasure in doing things we used to do together? So much history, and yet, we have spent so many years doing for others — will we know how to do things for ourselves?

  I suppose that is what living is all about, life and its different stages. I look at my own parents, and they seem to have handled those stages so well. They love the times when all the grandchildren surround them at the cottage, and they love the opportunity to spend time there by themselves.

  I guess the best we can do is to make home, cottage, and family our children’s favourite places to be, so they will continue to come back. I know that when I moved on, headed west, and began my own life, it was the family cottage that kept calling me back. After I graduated from university and set out on my own journey, moving from place to place, the cottage remained a constant and was where I felt most rooted. Our island cabin was like the feeling you get when you put on your old favourite comfy sweater; it is familiar, makes you feel secure, and smells like home.

  I think our kids love our summer place the same way that I did those many years ago. It is such an important part of their lives. Perhaps, someday, although not someday soon, the children will return each summer to the cottage with their own kids, and the cottage will remain chaotic and full of life — just as the family cottage was meant to be.

  On Golden Pond

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” states my teenage daughter. “I thought we were going to watch a cool movie tonight — who are these old farts?” She is holding up the DVD case, on which is a sepia-toned photo of an old Katharine Hepburn and an equally ancient Henry Fonda. All my kids are staring at me, as is my wife. Well, actually, my son is taking advantage of the disruption to cram as much of the popcorn into his mouth as possible without his sisters seeing or complaining.

  I try to explain who they are — “You know, she was in African Queen.”

  “What?”

  “He’s Jane and Peter’s dad” — blank looks — “You know, the Jane Fonda workout!”

  I realize I may have made a bit of a mistake here. On a cold, rainy, miserable spring evening, a rare night when there is nothing else on the go, I had received a call on my cellphone asking me if I wanted to pick up a movie on my way home. “There is nothing on tonight, so we thought we could watch a good family film,” said my wife.

  I perused the new releases, the action thrillers, vampire movies, love stories, and comedies, and found nothing that quite struck my fancy. I began glancing through old releases, and that is why I came across On Golden Pond. It seemed inordinately dusty. That should have been my first warning. The second should have come when the young female clerk began punching it into her register, stopped, looked at the jacket, scowled, and shrugged. “Hmmm, never heard of that.”

  I remember that my parents loved the movie On Golden Pond. She was Hepburn, he was Fonda, and the cottage played the starring role. Well, my dad has never been as cranky and cantankerous as the old curmudgeon Norman Thayer in the movie, nor my mom as dotty as Ethel Thayer, but it was the idea of the cottage and a summer at the lake that caught their fancy. My mother took to calling my dad an “old poop.”

  I also recall my parents trying to get us teenagers to watch the movie when it first came out. We were equally as morti
fied at the prospect. Where was the action? Where were the car chases, gun battles, secret agents, and scantily clad ladies? (Well, Jane Fonda in a bikini ... if I’d only known.) I had felt my own kids were more mature than I was.

  I put the movie in and we all start to watch. I bet they’ll like it, I thought. They barely make the opening credits. As I’m laughing at Fonda’s telephone antics, my oldest gets up, looks disgusted at me, and then turns to the others, “Who wants to play PS2?” They file out, my son taking the popcorn. I’m glad my wife remains; that is, until I throw a sheepish smile her way and notice that she is sleeping.

  It is a dream many of us have. We long for that day when our work-aday world is winding down, and we can head for the cottage shortly after the loons return to the lake in spring, and stay there until all the colourful autumn leaves have tumbled to the ground. There will be no work forcing us to commute, no soccer matches and hockey camps to schedule our cottage time around. We will be able to head up for most of the summer.

  The trouble is, of course, that there is a short window between retirement and old age, when the daily rigours of camp chores and maintenance become harder to handle. My folks still love to play the roles of Fonda and Hepburn, they love to head up to the cottage stage. They love it when the whole family is there, but it is hectic. They prefer being up there on their own. Frankly, we worry about them a bit. There are many things that could go wrong.

  They relish the routine. Dad gets up early and delivers a coffee to Mom in bed. He makes his famous cottage breakfast and they eat on the dock. They jump in the lake to cool off and do the front crawl out a hundred metres from the dock and then back. While they used to spring nimbly up on the end of the dock, they now walk out a little more gingerly to shore. Friends pass in boats and pull in for a chat. Sometimes dinner invitations are made. Mom sews new curtains for the cabin. They cease all work at four o’clock, the cocktail hour. Like Norman and Ethel, they hear their loons and grab the binoculars for a look.