Still in a Daze at the Cottage

by Ross, James 1744-1827;

  I saw a program once about ants that stated that the column of ants moves at the speed of the slowest walker. There is no passing, no impatience, no butting in line. They move on with a precision and a politeness not readily apparent in cottagers making the drive to their summer homes.

  If an ant from a neighbouring colony somehow gets confused and joins this line, they must abide by the rules. If he passes or butts in front of a fellow worker, the other ants forget their task for a brief moment. They move in and rough him up. “No passing lanes here,” they tell him. “No broken yellow line or four-lane highways.” Taught his lesson, the foreigner acquiesces, and the procession is allowed to continue. This is the only road rage exhibited. Other than that, the ants move quickly and efficiently along.

  There are no road signs or distances to passing lanes. The ants do not need the same inane instructions we are burdened with. There are no billboards stating “Large Vehicles Need More Room,” “Big or Small, Share the Road,” or “If You Can’t See, Don’t Pass.” (I’m of the mind that if you can’t see, you shouldn’t really even be driving.)

  One warm summer afternoon, after making the stressful journey to the cottage, I am lying out relaxed in the hammock, just happy to be here. In my mind are thoughts of road signs, crazy drivers, passing lanes, and ants. I drift off, and imagine that I’m a member of the hymenopterous species, marching along with my burden of sap neatly tucked under my arm. I’m walking close to the slow-moving ant in front of me, riding his butt, waiting for a passing lane. I know that once I wind through the long grass that hedges the trail, our column will break out into a wide dirt pathway, the ideal place to pull ahead. I anticipate that stretch, where I can leave the toddling creature behind and get back up to speed.

  Once there, however, I am shocked when the slow-moving insect actually breaks into a run, as do all of the ants in the line. I must run as fast as my six legs can carry me, just to keep up with the pace. Once the passing stretch ends, I find myself again behind the pokey proceeding, trudging slowly along, my anger and rage building. If I had a horn, I would honk it.

  There is no need, however, as what amounts to a miracle occurs. Just when I think I will never pass the agonizingly slow insect, one of those gigantic, ugly two-legged creatures appears, walking down the path towards the water. The snail-paced insect ahead reacts too slowly, and a flip-flop flops earthward, carrying our bad driver away on its sole.

  Justice is served! It is clear sailing now. Until ... what’s this? A shorter version of the human comes along, in pigtails. I recognize her as my youngest daughter. She sees the procession of ants marching across the path and begins jumping and stomping. Her foot comes towards me! My journey comes to a sudden end, and I awake in the hammock from my dream with a start and a shriek.

  Okay, so our drive to the cottage is not so bad after all.

  Cottage Fashion

  There is another advantage to owning a cottage. I can hang onto my old, worn out, decrepit clothes just a little bit longer. When my well-aged sneakers spring open at the toes so half my foot hangs free, when the sole of a running shoe detaches and flaps along as I walk, like an alligator trying to devour anything in its path, or when the shoes begin smelling like a cat’s litter box or my son’s hockey equipment bag, my darling wife has the audacity to try to toss them out like common garbage. I retrieve them and say, “These will be perfect for the cottage!”

  This is also the case with my ripped, faded blue jeans, the paint-stained T-shirt, or sweat-marked cap. They are perfect for our remote summer getaway. The same may be true for my tattered and rotting underwear, but here I draw the line. As much as I want to keep them and get full value in their wear, I can’t help but remember my mother’s stern warning: “Always wear clean underwear lest you get in an accident and end up at the hospital.” So, I allow the old boxers to get tossed with the rubbish. The rest of my vagabond collection I stubbornly hang onto as “cottage wear.”

  Cottage fashion is an interesting and very personal thing. While I prefer old, my wife leans towards new. When spring rolls around and that wonderful time approaches when we plan to open up our summer place, my wife flips through the pages of clothing catalogues to see what is in vogue for summertime. A new outfit for each cottage day is a must, for who knows when Brad Pitt or George Clooney might shipwreck on the rocky shoal off our island’s eastern tip and wash up on shore, castaways at our cottage.

  There are those cottagers who always have the look of someone who jumped straight from the pages of an outdoor magazine, with their clean and pressed quick-dry shirts and pants, Gore-Tex jackets, cargo shorts, Tilley hats, and shiny leather high-top hikers. Before their trip to the cottage they need to visit their nearest outdoor store, so they can wander down to the dock looking like models from an Explore Magazine photo shoot.

  My sister favours the look of a Martha Stewart protege. My younger brother has the tailored look of a movie actor playing the part of a great hunter on safari. My daughters take after their mother, often changing clothes many times a day. My son prefers to wear the same bathing shorts and T-shirt each day of his two-week cottage stay. My parents look like they were scripted to play Hepburn and Fonda’s doubles in On Golden Pond. My Uncle John wears the same fashions that he grew up on in the fifties and sixties — not just the same fashions, mind you, the same clothes.

  Then there is me, right out of the pages of Tramp’s Quarterly. I like an old wool fisherman’s knit, and I prefer rubber boots and an oilskin slicker. While recognizing the advances made in outdoor clothing, I favour the traditional. Or, my wife will say, I’m too cheap to buy new clothes. “Please throw those out,” she will plead. “You’ve had them since university, they do not owe you a thing!”

  Some cottagers prefer wool, while others favour Lycra. Cotton is comfortable, but no good when it gets wet. Flip-flops and leather sandals are in, dress shoes are not. The kids prefer nothing on their feet, running barefoot all day long.

  Above the front door inside our cabin are two flat-top leather brimmed hats that my brother and I wore on all the many canoe trips we enjoyed as kids. There is a Greek fisherman’s cap that I brought back for my dad after I had spent a week in this Mediterranean country as a teenager. My oldest brother felt best in his buckskin jacket, one that he tanned and tailored himself with leather fringe and intricate beadwork. He wore leather moccasins on his feet. He was a modern-day Jeremiah Johnson. The beautiful buckskin hangs from a wooden peg on the cabin wall.

  The only one I feel strongly about is the swim short over the Speedo, and boxers over briefs. Although who would argue against the skimpiest bikinis for the ladies — well, certain ladies? Whatever the fashion, the clothes say a lot about the person, and add spice and variety to the cottage visit. And life at the cottage allows me to hang onto my comfortable old clothes at least one season longer.

  Summer Reflections

  It is hot again today. The sun is warm already, at eight in the morning, and I am drowsy. It warms my arms and face, making it hard to wake up. A swim is the only way.

  There is not a breath of air — the lake is a mirror, everything is reflected perfectly. The only things that disturb the glassy surface are the splash and ripples from me jumping into the water and doing a breast stroke to the swim raft. The water is clear down to its rocky depths. I swim stretched out and see my shadow on the lake bottom, amongst the minnows. I see beams of light from the sun shimmering through the water like spotlights.

  I climb onto the raft and squint skyward into the blue. Around our front bay, the shoreline trees are reflected so perfectly in the water that you could take a photo and later debate which way is up and which is down. It is another beautiful day; this summer has been full of days like this. We need some rain, this is very true, but right now I am not complaining. The ankle-biters will be out in force today, with no wind to take them away, but now there is only perfection.

  My ears perk up as I hear our cottage front door shutting. There is something abou
t the slam of our cabin’s door — something about the sound that is so comforting and so familiar. I can’t describe it in writing, of course, because it is not really a sound, it is a feeling — at least it makes me feel a certain way. Our door at home does nothing for me, it just shuts. I hear the sound now, and hear the voices of our kids. I know that they will be asking to go skiing. There is nothing quite like carving through the lake’s calm, glassy surface on a slalom ski. It is akin to skiing down a mountain on virgin white powder.

  I sit up on the raft and see the kids wandering down the path to the dock carrying skis, tow rope, and life jackets. The youngest and smallest amongst them carries nothing, but shouts out instructions about where to put the gear and who will ski first. I shake my head and smile at this. Water drips from my soggy, tangled hair, and from my greying whiskers. I don’t shave at the cottage, so I sport a raggedy beard, silver around the chin and very itchy. My wife once called it my rugged, sexy look, so I keep trying. I’ll shave when I get home.

  A dragonfly zigzags through the air, its fragile wings beating a gentle hum, and lands on my knee. When I was a youngster, my mother told me that dragonflies were flying darning needles that would sew my fingers together, my eyes shut, and even my mouth closed. I’m a rational adult now, but still find the tickle of the insect on my leg a little disconcerting. I keep my eye on this little fellow, and my fingers away and splayed apart. Still, I have heard how many mosquitoes a dragonfly will devour in a day, and so I treat this one with the utmost respect, gently shooing it off my knee and towards my very verbose youngest daughter, who is now yelling out at me from the dock. “Fly away, friend,” I whisper. “And if you want a mouth to knit tight….”

  No such luck, and my morning instructions reach me on the raft. There is a lake that must be skied, a boat that must be driven. There is no more time for summer reflections. There is work to do. I dive back in and watch my shadow swim to shore.

  Cottage Questions

  Along with afternoon, evening, and nighttime, early morning is perhaps my favourite time of the day. The kids are still sleeping, so it is a quiet time. Mist rises from the still lake waters, the songbirds sing from the treetops, and water birds drift in and out of our little bay. I take my coffee down to the dock, look out over the beautiful, peaceful world, and ponder the great mysteries of life.

  Why do I “ow” and “ouch” as I walk down the stony path with my cup, each little pebble poking into my tender feet — while all day long the children run around barefoot over gravel and rock without even slowing down? Are their feet that much tougher than mine? Is it simply my extra body weight that makes each step more painful? Or am I just getting soft in my old age?

  Why, in the daytime, can mosquitoes sneak up and drill into your forehead without a sound, when at night you can hear them coming from a mile away? In the daylight you just feel a little itch and you rub your head, in the process squashing a bloated insect that has been gorging itself on your blood. At nighttime, you hear the buzz of the mosquito coming — coming, coming, forever coming, until finally it is buzzing inside your ear. The nasty little nuisance ruins your sleep, as squishing her becomes your sole life’s focus.

  While on the subject of pesky bugs, how can a minuscule insect the size of a blackfly take a lion-size bite out of your neck? In a related question, how can my youngest and smallest child be the loudest?

  Why does it always rain on long weekends and why is it always sunny and beautiful on the day you have to leave? If dogs love the cottage so much, why, on your day of departure, are they always under your feet exhibiting a great fear of being left behind? Why does the wind always still when you are sailing back from the far end of the lake? Why does the boat motor stall and refuse to start when I am water-skiing? And why, on the last day of a canoe trip, are the wind and waves always in your face?

  Why are there two seats in the outhouse? How can my son wear the same clothes (same bathing suit and T-shirt) each day of our two-week cottage stay? Does he know what shoelaces are for? Why do I love playing old board games at the cottage in the evening with the family, when if someone pulled one out at home, I would be horrified and chock full of excuses?

  Can you imagine spending all your time in cities, never seeing the stars?

  Why are there different expectations when I say five more minutes because I want to finish the chapter of a book before starting the barbecue than when my wife says the same at home when she is telling me how much longer she will take getting dressed to go out? When my five minutes are up and my wife says “Don’t worry, I’ll do it,” why do I immediately start to worry?

  When minnows nibble at our toes when we are swimming around the dock, should we really be skinny dipping in the evenings when we know there are pike in the lake?

  And one final question: I remarked in the opening of this story about the melody of songbirds in the early morning, because I was trying to set a charming, tranquil cottage scene. But really, why are the darn birds so noisy at 5:00 a.m., squawking and peeping and making a tremendous racket, and then as soon as you are awake and up, they suddenly fall relatively quiet?

  The truth is, they are the reason I am up at such an ungodly hour in the first place, asking myself all these stupid cottage questions. The chirping nuisances have no respect — especially after I was kept awake all night by some silly mosquito buzzing in my ear. Where’s my slingshot? I think I know how I can get rid of some of these annoying pebbles that hurt my feet. Kill two of life’s mysteries with one stone, as they say.

  Who’ll Stop the Rain

  I am having trouble coping with the fact that the summer is almost over. Well, it is not officially over yet, but, if you are like me and have kids heading back to school after this long weekend, it is all but done. I am not really sure where the summer went, it just seems to have sped past. Perhaps the summer seemed fleeting because the weather was not really that great. It has been a wet summer, on the heels of a snowy winter, and now winter soon will be staring us down again.

  Today started out like many others: threatening, grey, and dreary. The heavy sky grew so black that it made midday look like dusk. A morning drizzle matured into a deliberate shower, and then, just after I told everybody it looked to be brightening, the shower intensified into a monsoon. We sit around the cabin playing games and reading, our faces dark as the sky. I decide it is time to write about rain.

  Rain — it has been a frequent visitor to cottage country this year. Rain in myriad forms: mist, drizzle, showers, downpours, sheets, and torrents. Rain so persistent that it can dampen your very spirit, especially for those who have worked all year long while dreaming of that two- or three-week cottage stay.

  We have seen some sun as well, of course. The sun will pop its head out for a few hours in an afternoon and its warmth and beauty make us immediately forget the wet. We cling to fleeting moments like this during our brief holidays at the lake. Then, the rain returns like an unwanted house guest.

  As a general rule, I try to avoid going shopping on rainy days in the summer. On those wet, miserable days the downtown is packed with cottagers happy to do their town things when the sun is not out. So, to avoid the traffic and congested aisles in the grocery store, I stay away from downtown, the shops, food stores, and malls.

  Only one problem: during this damp summer my strategy has proven to be flawed. My family is starving to death. My cupboard is as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s.

  “When are you going to buy some food?” my kids whine.

  “Why, when the sun comes out, of course,” I reply, and then, to my family’s chagrin, I explain for the umpteenth time my reasons for avoiding town on a wet day. Sometimes children just do not listen. My wife just shakes her head and then sneaks into town for provisions. She’s from Vancouver, so what does she know about rainy days? The rain turns everything green and beautiful. This is good for my hungry children, who are forced to raid the cottage garden, which is flourishing, growing like the Amazon jungle.

&nbs
p; I hate to complain about the weather. When others do it I find it tiresome. For some, it is always too hot or too cold. They whine about too much snow or too much rain, and then when the sun pops out for a week or two, it is too dry and the grass is brown. They wish for cooler weather when it is hot and humid, and then when the temperature drops and it is crisp and cool they say, “Well, isn’t this just like Muskoka.”

  I tend to find beauty in whatever a day may bring. I like the rain. Raindrops on the roof at night lull me to sleep. I love watching a good thunderstorm roll through. I’m not a sun-worshipper by any means. I don’t mind sitting in the lounger in the sunshine reading a good book, but I find suntanning boring. But still, a little bit of sun and blue sky would be nice. A nice sunny day just allows one to do so much more at the lake. It even makes a cold beverage taste better.

  As I finish working on this, another little narrative of great importance, I look out the cottage window and squint into what appears to be bright light. The thing about writing a column is that there is a week’s lead time before it is published. I’ll write a few paragraphs moaning about the rain we are having and send it to the editor by my deadline, and then the sun will come out and we will have a spell of hot, dry weather. Readers will deduce, once again, that I’m off my rocker and will wonder what I’m complaining about. But, when I write about the rain, it will go away, and that is the method to my madness. Write about rain, and then look forward to a sunny September.

  A Room with a View

  Though the summer seems to have flown by, as always, I did manage to accomplish all the cottage chores that I wanted to, and that, in itself, is very unusual. Perhaps I kept my summer chore list shorter this year. Maybe I kept my expectations more in check — or, more truthfully, kept my darling wife’s expectations more reasonable. Or, and this is what I try to tell my spouse, perhaps I just flat-out work too hard. I don’t think she will buy that, but perhaps my readers will.