Cottage Daze

by James Ross

  “It’s a good game for learning her numbers, isn’t it?” I grumble to my wife.

  I don’t know about you, but we play a lot of games with the whole family when we are at the cottage. Most evenings, after the supper dishes have been cleaned up, we will sit around the big kitchen table and pull out a game. Sometimes, when the rain clouds have closed in and it’s wet and grey outside, we might spend an afternoon rolling dice and moving little men around a board. There is something about the cottage and the tradition of games.

  Perhaps it is because we have no electricity at our island cabin, and therefore no television, video games, or any such diversions. I believe it is more than that, though. A trip to the cottage is a step back to simpler times, and those simpler times are more conducive to quality family time.

  We have a storage bench where all the games are kept. Some have been there for thirty-some years, since I was a kid. Some are more modern. A couple are missing a piece or two, replaced by makeshift cards or odd trinkets. Some of the boxes have been taped up, while others are in mint condition.

  We have original editions of Clue and Monopoly, two perennial favourites. There are Risk, Full House, Masterpiece, and Life. There are checkers and Chinese checkers, chess, backgammon, and Mastermind. We have an old Rummoli game where we can teach the children how to gamble, in the same manner and on the same board where I learned how to play poker with my parents when I was young. In my dad’s handwriting on one corner of the board, now slightly faded and barely legible, is the order of what beats what, from royal flush down to ace high.

  Of course, there are several decks of cards, most of them complete. We love a good round of euchre or hearts. There are modern games like The Settlers of Catan and Cranium. When bigger groups gather, we can make fools of ourselves playing Pictionary, Balderdash, Trivial Pursuit, or charades. My wife and I will sit on the dock on a quiet afternoon and play a game of Scrabble.

  I remember my siblings and me cleaning up after supper while my parents went for an evening paddle. Then we would get a game set up and eagerly await their return. Playing a game with the parents was always something we looked forward to — it was a memorable part of cottage life.

  Another memory is of my parents going to a friend’s for dinner. They returned talking about all that happened in the evening, and I could hear them from my bed. I caught snippets of their conversation: some murdered body, hit over the head with a candlestick, in a ballroom. From what I could understand, there were secret passages between rooms — how cool is that in the imaginative mind of a five-year-old? My mother had been hanging out with some professor in a billiard room, but my dad didn’t seem to mind, even when the academic turned out to be a killer. My dad seemed to have followed some sexpot named Scarlet around, and this did seem to annoy my mother. I thought, boy adults have fun: people murdered, and what a mansion their friends must have! A game called Clue had just been introduced to North America.

  Now, we sit around the table staring covertly at our secret notes, going from room to room playing detective in a race to find out who murdered Mr. Body. I am always Colonel Mustard. At one time the kids had a good giggle when I would jabber away in a rendition of an old colonel’s English accent. Now, they just roll their eyes.

  When we are at home during the school year, we sometimes think that it would be nice to set aside one evening a week for a family game night. Great idea, but it just never happens. Life with children is too busy. They are on the go, or we have other places to be and more important things to do.

  At the cottage there is always time, and sitting around the table with the whole family and an old board game remains a wonderful way to spend it.

  Never turn your back on your sister.

  Cottage Guests

  It doesn’t matter how well you know them, cottage guests will always change when they come to your summer abode. Typically, there are three main types. There are those who show up with a sporting goods store strapped to their SUVs. They have canoes or kayaks, water skis and wakeboards, fishing rods, snorkelling gear, and baseball gloves. These active guests are up every morning at 6:00 a.m., and don’t stop all weekend. They energize you. They tire you out.

  Then there are the guests who park their backsides in the sitting room or on the dock and act like they are visiting some swank, four-star, all-inclusive resort. They like to say things like, “My beer is empty,” “I’m hungry, when is lunch usually served?” and “You should build yourself a little trolley — it would make it easier for you to bring down all those appetizers and drinks, and save you some trips.” They are always on time for dinner, and afterwards, while you clean up, they take the canoe out for a romantic evening paddle. “You should try it,” they say.

  Finally, there are the guests who immediately fall in love with the place, constantly smiling and shaking their heads in wonder. They are immediately at ease and totally comfortable in their surroundings. They like to read, and they tend to enjoy the simple things in life. They also like to help out with cottage projects, daily chores, and in cooking meals. Meal preparation becomes a social, fun time, with everyone getting involved. Some will volunteer to take charge of a homemade pizza night or some ethnic-themed meal.

  While these visitors quickly fall into the relaxation mode, the others remain nervous and fidgety, having had to leave their workplace technology behind. They are out of their comfort zones, without their cellphones, laptops, and BlackBerries. In fact, they do not know what else to use their hands for. You find them nervously pacing around the dock in the morning, stretching and flexing their thumbs. During the drive home they check every kilometre to see if they are “back in range,” and when they miraculously re-enter this connected zone, they immediately fall silent, all their concentration focussed on their techno addictions.

  The children also like to invite their own young friends to spend some time at the cottage. Some are bored — “There is nothing to do!” Translation: they miss their cellphones, computers, video games, and text messages. These might remain friends, but they are city friends. The kids seem to have an innate ability to recognize the friends who will fit in, use their imaginations, and join in the time-tested cottage activities. At their summer escape, they want to surround themselves with those who will unabashedly play their made-up games of manhunt, James Bond, capture the flag, and, after dark, the sinister murder game. They play old, traditional board games, and can spend whole days frolicking in the lake, never complaining that they’re cold.

  The best cottage guests? They create memories that make you laugh. They suddenly pull harmonicas out of their pockets at the evening campfire and entertain. Who knew they were musical? They have their own fun and funky fireside songs and games. They religiously rise in the early morning, jump into the lake, and scream like some phantom lake monsters. They get the kids up early and take them out fishing. A fellow cottage friend said she had a guest who would play the trombone every morning at the end of the dock while the sun was rising. Others will lie out on the swim rock at night, looking up at the stars and pointing out to the kids all the constellations.

  There is always that brief moment of contemplation — before the dive.

  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. By doing so, they tend to find their way into our cottage lore. Also, by doing so, they tend to ensure themselves of another invite!

  The Food Chain

  My wife stumbled onto the battle scene first. She had gone to retrieve the watering can, which is stored under the front porch of the cottage, when she jumped back with a shrill screech.

  Of course this drew the attention of my children, who, although they never seem to hear the clang of the dinner bell calling them for a meal, respond at once to a horrified yelp. They arrived at the scene even before I bravely came running to the rescue. We peered under the w
ood decking, crouching cautiously to gain a better view.

  A long black, green, and yellow garter snake was the reason for my wife’s consternation, but it was the battle that was ensuing that caught the fancy of the rest of us. There was a tug-of-war going on between the snake and a huge, brown, wrinkly toad. The snake had one of the toad’s legs in its hinged mouth and was working hard to envelop the rest of the poor creature — a feat that seemed to me to be impossible.

  In a fatherly way, I was a little concerned to have the children take in this morbid scene. The kids simply found the whole thing captivating — although the descriptive words “gross” and “sick” were generously applied. We watched as the snake gained some ground, pulling the toad farther under the wooden porch. Then we watched the toad hop gamely towards the light.

  The battle continued for much of the day, and for most of the length of the deck. Though I lost interest after a time and returned to my work, the children exhibited an untiring fascination. They peered through the cracks and gave a running commentary. They cheered for the toad. When I shuffled them off into the cabin for bed that night, the battle had not yet been won — or lost.

  The children were up unusually early the next day and quickly out to the covered porch, but after searching exhaustively and peering through every crack, they reported that the fight must have ended. They concluded that the toad must have escaped.

  Old-fashioned fun — shooting pebbles into the lake.

  Later that same day, I came across the snake sunning itself on a rock by the water’s edge. Evidence dictated that the battle’s outcome had been very different from what my kids had hoped for, or I had thought possible. As the snake slithered slowly away, I could see the huge bulge halfway along the length of its sleek body. It looked like I feel after a huge Thanksgiving dinner.

  I wondered whether to tell the family about my find. I decided it best, for why hide nature’s truths? I have seen a lot of things, but this was a lesson for me as well. I never thought it possible for this snake to swallow a toad the size of a softball.

  And the lesson was not over. Not long after, as we were enjoying lunch on the dock, we saw our friendly red-tailed hawk wing past with what looked like a length of rope dangling from its talons.

  The snake, made lazy and careless in victory, had become the victim. Another of nature’s battles had been won and lost.

  Island Kingdom

  It is a beautiful sunny day. Wispy clouds drift lazily across the blue. My wife snoozes in the lounger with an open book on her lap. The children play on the swim raft moored in the bay, pushing each other off in some form of “king of the castle.” The giggling and laughter is a beautiful sound. King of the raft they may be, but I am the monarch of this island, methinks, as I stand surveying my kingdom.

  Often when we think of an earthly paradise, it is an island that is imagined. True, it is mostly a tropical destination, with white sand beaches, blue ocean, and swaying palms, but also it seems to be the self-containment that the island promises that is an important part of the fantasy.

  My cottage is on an island. It is far from tropical; in fact, it can be quite chilly some days, even in summer. There is no sandy beach, no salty ocean air or turquoise water, no palms, sea birds, or tropical fish. The island is a balsam-scented, three-acre mound of rock, cedar, and pine situated in the middle of a lake in the northern woods. It is the island from a Tom Thomson painting. The conifers are bent in the wind and gnarled with age.

  On the island, in a setting of white birch and mountain ash, is a rambling log cabin with a loft and ladder, polished wood furniture, a wood-burning fireplace, covered porch, and cedar privy. Muskoka chairs are on the dock at the end of a short, well-worn path. There is no electricity, telephone, or running water. A propane oven or little wood stove is where we do our cooking, and oil lamps help light the cabin at night. It is a relaxing place, and a fun and safe place for the family. The children and our dogs can run around and we do not worry. The island provides a combination of freedom and security.

  King of the castle — giggling and laughter are beautiful sounds.

  The island might lack the tropical flavour or even the fearsome cliffs or craggy mountains that fix some islands in one’s memory. Here, at the cottage, the beauty is more modest than spectacular. It is beautiful, though, surrounded by inviting water and a sweeping panorama of inlets, islands, and peninsulas.

  True, cottaging on a remote island can provide certain obstacles. One cannot so readily hop in the car and head to town for milk and bread. It is a little bit more of a logistical dilemma when everything has to be brought by boat — the provisions for a week’s stay, the hundred-pound propane cylinders needed for cooking and refrigeration, or the lumber for a cottage project. The marvellous sense of isolation is peculiar to islands, and it is this isolation that both limits distractions and demands self-sufficiency.

  I have always thought of myself as an island person. My wife and family would say that I am frugal. I am self-sufficient, comfortable with solitude, an avid reader, and greedy for small pleasures. Since this is an island that has been in the family since my childhood, the cottage also encourages a powerful nostalgia in me.

  It was on the island that I learned to fish and canoe, water-ski, chop wood — it was here that I grew to manhood. I cut a deep, jagged gash in my left pointer finger when the crosscut saw I was using slipped out of the log. I hid by the water on a rock ledge surrounded by cedars, not wanting to admit my careless mistake — holding a blood-soaked cloth over a wound that needed stitches. Unembarrassed now, I show the scar to my children.

  Yes, back then I was just a kid, a mere serf in this domain. Now I am royalty!

  The children are at the shore now, climbing out on swim rock, asking what is for lunch. My wife is awake, giving me orders to put the barbecue on for hot dogs.

  “Can you take us out water-skiing after lunch?” the kids ask.

  “You said you’d take me fishing,” my son reminds me.

  “And you were going to fix the dock this afternoon,” suggests my wife.

  “Yes, my liege,” says the man who would be king.

  Puppy Love

  I recently introduced a new family pet to life at the cottage. Boomer is a year-old husky, playful, athletic, good-looking, and a little thick. Technically he is no longer a puppy, though he certainly does act like one.

  It was love at first sight for him as far as the cottage goes. And why not? Cottage life is a perfect fit for most dogs. Upon arrival on the three-acre island he is in constant motion. There are so many new sights, smells, and places to explore. As we unpack and get things organized, Boomer and Timba run this way and that. They are just two medium-sized huskies, but sound like a whole herd of elephants as they thunder past.

  With my chores complete, I sit down in the rocker on the front porch and open an ice-cold beverage. I’m asked to light the barbecue, so I set down the beer for just a second and step off the porch. When I turn back I see that the darling pup has pierced the tin with his incisors and is lapping up the spraying liquid. I let out a piercing scream, causing Boomer to dart off into the trees with the can of Kilkenny still clenched in his teeth. It’s my own fault. Why would I leave an almost full tin of cold, crisp ale unguarded? Who could blame the parched canine, overheated from all the running, for satisfying his thirst.

  After dinner I take the kids for a quick ski. Boomer worries greatly about this ritual, people being dragged around the water on a rope, kind of like backwards dog sledding. He paces and whines, and smooches with the children when they return safely to the dock. At one point he leans out too far and tumbles into the lake. He panics and swims under the dock and gets stuck there looking like a drowned rat. I have to get in the water and rescue him.

  We take an evening paddle around the island. Boomer follows us on land, dashing around the trail, alighting on different rocky viewpoints on the shore. When we pass that point, he darts back into the bush and reappears at the next roc
ky precipice. When we return to the dock, he comes bounding down, slips and slides off and into the water. He tries to swim underneath the stringers and gets stuck. I look at Timba and we both shake our heads.

  I had a restless sleep in the boathouse bunkie that night, as I tossed and turned and dreamt about being on an African safari with elephants, lions, and hyenas circling my tent. The night is filled with all kinds of weird African noises. In a sleepy, half-dazed, early-morning state I stumble to the cabin to put on some coffee, and almost immediately fall into a huge crater that was dug in the middle of the trail. I yell for help, but neither human nor dog responds, so I scramble out of the hole myself. It appears that the dog had been trying to dig up some kind of rodent, perhaps a vole.

  She would welcome the kids back to land — swimming and skiing, were to her, supreme acts of folly.

  Awake now, I look at the scene before me, horrified. It looks like a war zone, even worse than the kids’ bedrooms at home. Somehow Boomer has opened the door to the utility shed and dragged everything out — tools, nails, gas cans, boat oil, pieces of lumber, paintbrushes, tarps, and rope. Every knick-knack necessary for cottage survival is spread about. He has even pulled out the chainsaw and appears to have tried to start it.

  I then find all the cooking utensils that usually hang neatly on the barbecue, scattered about like there has been some wild doggy party. The metal tongs and spatula are dinted and dimpled with teeth marks. The handle of the cleaning brush has been eaten off.

  I find bits of clothing that had been left outside. Some of it is still recognizable. The dog grabbed my oldest daughter’s bikini bottoms, although I would have thought he would rather sink his teeth into something a little more substantial, and chewed them even smaller, thong size. My comfortable sneakers have been transformed into thongs of a different sort. A bottle of sun block has been squeezed empty, spread over the cottage wall. I’m not sure, but it looks as if he was spelling his name.