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Cottage Life

I haven't thought about the cottage in a while. Or cottages; in my immediate family there were three.

The first two were on Clear Lake, located in the Rideau Corridor (http://www.rideau-info.com/canal/ecology/article-ecology.html).

Cottage #1 was a cabin that my parents bought when they were young and cash-strapped. Green rug in the living room, plywood floor leading to a bathroom with a porta-pottie, and gas lamps for light.

My brother and sister and I shared a room crowded with a bunk bed and a fold-out cot. In floor corners we'd dump oversized hobo pouches made of bright, patterned 70s fabric. Mom fashioned them for us to pack our weekend gear, labeling each with our names in marker. Leftover material was used for bedroom curtains.

Daytime activities were varied. Picking wild blueberries, strawberries, raspberries, blackberries. Seeking out frogs, turtles, mink, snakes, mice, and chipmunks.

Observing the beaver dam. Fighting over binoculars to better view the blue heron or the loons on the lake. Swimming, canoeing, and riding to Chaffey's Lock in the red motorboat. And though I never got the hang of the windsurfer, dad did. On gusty days he was something to see.

Blackflies, horseflies, mosquitoes. Damselflies and dragonflies.

Patches of trillium and the leaning cedar tree.

Large indentations on the hill around the bend that I hypothesized were caused by dinosaur or meteor.

At night we read or played games like Boggle or Dominoes. Or cards. Christ, I sucked at cards. My sister kicked my ass every time.

Then there were the chores -- stick gathering comes to mind. I was probably a real pill about it too. Yup, idyllic as it was, there were times I moped about having to go to the cottage with my little brother and sister when it would be much more fun to stay in town for sleepover parties with friends. And use a real toilet.

Cottage #2 was built on the same piece of land. A bigger construction with a wood exterior. My parents had the frame built, and then tasked themselves with finishing the interior.

I recall it being a lot of work.

The old cabin was hauled away in wintertime after the new one was erected. I didn't miss it, but it maintains a more prominent place in my memory than its successors.

A few years later my parents sold the second place. I don't know why. Money problems? Stress over keeping up a second property? Irritation at having to listen to children complain that they'd rather be playing video games or hanging out at the mall?

Whatever the issue, they must have resolved it for a time, because a year or two later they bought cottage #3. It was in the same general area. Two stories, a few bedrooms, fully finished. But I was only there sporadically. My weekends were being given over increasingly to summer jobs and to my high school social life, such as it was. After a while, my parents sold again.

The constant during the first twenty years of my life was my grandparents' cottage, located about 45 minutes away from ours.

I had more fun there. My parents didn't view their surroundings through a filter of to-do lists, and there were usually lots of people around to distract my siblings and I from our bickering.

Details of that cottage on Higley Lake are still vivid: the screened-in porch where we'd have lunch, old framed photographs, floral-print sofas, blue upholstered rocking chair, party-line telephone, and the smell of something that I can only think might have been old books. There was a big window that overlooked the lake by day, and provided an entomological showcase by night. And the lake itself was great. It wasn't overtaken by weeds, and it was deep enough that you could do jumps off the end of the dock. We'd spend hours down there.

Back inside, granddad would serve us ginger ale, and we would place our glasses on pastel aluminum coasters.

Theirs was the site of many extended family dinners.

Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub, yay God.

My grandparents sold the cottage in the mid-nineties, I think. They were getting older and having trouble keeping the place up, and with new constructions popping up along the property line, the sense of seclusion was spoiled anyway.

During my late teens and early twenties, the cottage experience faded. After years in the suburbs I was enjoying life in Toronto, and then Montreal. It was urban and it was exciting. At the time I couldn't get enough of it.

But lately there's been a shift. Getting out of town to a cottage is a treat that doesn't happen often enough for my liking. Granted, it's different now. My friends and I usually rent a place near St. Agathe. Or we take advantage of the Elkin family cabin near St. Sauveur. Our meals are fancier, the booze flows freely. We have Double Dominoes instead of Dominoes, and the best evenings include a few rounds of Celebrities.

But the nighttime absence of city hum and light is the same as it ever was, and the air smells just as good.

And while I may be all grown up, competitive dock jumping never gets old.

Sick List

I have been remarkably healthy this year. I think I came down with a cold back in February, but the fact that I can't quite remember suggests that whatever it was couldn't have been that bad. 

Every now and then, I feel my body flirting with illness. I go to bed wondering how it'll play out overnight, and then more often than not, wake up congratulating my immune system for another job well done.

Tonight I have that flirty feeling again. Maybe I'm just a little run down or experiencing a deep animal need to hibernate. Or maybe it's something more. H1N1 is all over the news and I've got friends currently suffering from viral slapdowns, so I'm particularly wary.

Finding yourself sick without the proper supplies sucks. There's nothing like having to haul your fevered ass outside because you're out of canned soup.

And do you think I can count on this chucklehead for any Lassie-style assistance?

"Cammie! I have been felled by the flu! Here, take this letter that I have laboriously scrawled in my weakened state and get help! Run, Cammie, run! Swift like the wind! You are my only hope!"

Nope. I'm on my own. So tonight I got organized and ensured that I have everything on my sick list:

- hot toddy ingredients**

- soup

- throat lozenges

- cold meds

- books

- movies

- Gatorade

To all the germy germs out there: bring it on.

**Digginteresting Hot Toddy Mix

Serves 2

- 4 cups water

- 4 inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and thinly sliced

- juice from 1 lemon (or to taste)

- 2 tbsp honey (or to taste)

- 2 shots brandy

- lemon verbena leaves, fresh or dried (optional)

Add ginger to 4 cups water, and bring to a boil. If desired, add lemon verbena leaves. Lower heat and simmer, uncovered, for 5 minutes. Strain liquid into two mugs. Divide fresh lemon juice and honey, then add a shot of brandy to each mug. Serve immediately.

Note: Don't go overboard with the brandy. In a sickly haze a couple of years back I dribbled too much hooch into the brew and have a distinct memory of being incapacitated on the couch, thinking: "Great. Now I'm feverish and I'm wasted." Trust me, it's less fun than it sounds.