As Dad and I sat eating our sandwiches under the oak, we both knew it was very likely that this was the last time we would be here, like this. 

And yet I was not sad, I am full. I am full of memories and wisdom from this place. The striped curtains of our bedroom doors are woven into the very fibre of my being, the sounds of acorns and an earlier rain hitting the roof are the soundtrack of my mind when it is calm. 

If I could zap myself back to any place or time that I have lived in my life, it would be to a Saturday evening in a September, doing dishes with Laura or another family member, Finkleman’s 45s on the radio. Dad out cleaning the BBQ after a delicious meal of chicken drumsticks and corn, the kettle just boiled and ready to heat the dishwater, a snackin’ cake in the oven, aromas of cinnamon and cloves filling the room, and the table cleared and ready for a game of Abyssinian Whist. 

I would choose a September because we have the memories of the whole summer behind us, with Granny, Naomi, Anna and others who had come to stay and enjoy the cottage with us. We know things are changing: we don’t get to be here for weeks at a time anymore, but we know there are still a few good lake days and Thanksgiving still ahead of us. September days have the warmth of summer, but the earlier evenings mean we can have a fire, making ghost gum and singing endlessly, maybe still catching a glimpse of a shooting star, and the loon calls are possibly at their best. September mornings are cool, and I want to put on a sweater when I wake up, but Mum reminds me that it’s warm outside, if you can just bring yourself to step out into it. She is right, of course.

A good lake day includes slipping my feet onto Dad’s shoulders while underwater, clutching his thumbs and balancing as he stands up, up, up. How long can he hold his breath? How strong and tall is he? The wonder all pauses as he stands slowly, water drips off his shoulders and I realise how high up I am, and concentrate on balancing as I stand, and let go of his thumbs. For a moment we are 2 whole people tall, and there is a current of energy running from the bottom of his underwater feet to the top of my head in the wind and the sun. I lift my arms straight over my head and dive. Amazing. Let’s do it again!

Granny always said that the lake had healing powers, or at least that it was very very good. She never minded if I would grab onto her shoulders so she could pull me along as she swam. We never thought much about her rubber flowered bathing cap and why we didn’t all wear them. She swam or stood in the lake any chance she got, and I will always do the same. Even on this recent April visit, I walked to the beach and put my hands in the lake, splashing the water all over my face and neck, and then tried to pass along the power to Dad when I got back up the hill. 

Change

The oak that we sit under now with our sandwiches has a scar where the branch used to be that held the tire swing. The tree has grown even bigger since then, and the deck is now in the place where the swing was.  There is nothing else in the world like the feeling of the rainwater warmed by the sun that would splash on my legs when the tire swing got really moving. 

Like the deck, and the scar on the tree, things have changed at the cottage over time, but somehow it holds all of those times as a cohesive package. Time is different at the cottage. It holds my heart, the roots of my passion and wonder, my whole family, moments with fireflies and porcupines and minnows, bee stings and underwater handstands. I would not trade those memories or those moments for anything in the world. 

I am ready to not make new memories there anymore. I know none of us can be as present for it as Mum and Dad have been for it these last 50 years. I want to be able to hear the creak and rattle of the wooden door as we pull it shut, and the slow slam of the screen door, then say ‘bye cottage’ as we drive away, tears of time and memories and moments happily rolling down my cheeks. They are a special kind of tears, they come from a place deep within me that no new memories can replace, and a well of good times that I can sit by any time.

Standard of excellence

The sound of rain on the cottage roof is a standard by which I measure everything else. My home now has 3 great places to listen to the rain, and while they are all excellent, none have the particular quality of the unique sound from my cottage room, my bed, as the rain gets louder, some drops sneaking in through the screens, and the leaves in the trees collecting some of the drops for later when the breeze blows. In fact, there are other benchmarks by which I evaluate things that are steeped in the cottage. Is this moment or place as good as sitting on the porch swing, watching mum’s face light up as she hears a distant train?

Walking with Rufus in our New Brunswick forest, I sniff the air and watch him lovingly as he explores smells and wonders that I cannot detect, I think: this is like the cottage. And I realise, I don’t mean it smells like or looks like the trees or the beach at NBE, I mean it feels like it. I feel like I have nowhere else to be right now, unhurried and completely filled with joy and love. I feel like I have accomplished something today, with a rake or a shovel, or in the kitchen or as a craft, and now I can enjoy nature, feel love for my family, and observe the sounds of the wind hitting the leaves, or the blood pulsing in my veins. 

So the benchmark is about a feeling, not a place. Last summer, with Marion, Ruth Ann, Laurie and Ross, as we sat around the fire by the river in NB, which is not a lot like the fire at NBE, I felt full and happy, with time folding onto itself. I thought: this is like the cottage. Now I understand why I felt that, it is the perfectly content, loved and loving, outdoor, intemporal, magical feeling of “like the cottage”. 

There are more recent memories too, which are valuable because they are with us kids as adults. Their value comes from us choosing to be together, to laugh and play together and to revel in the magic of the place. This will stay with us and we will feel ‘like the cottage’ no matter where we are as we gather together for the rest of our lives. I feel it on zoom each week, as we gather with nothing more important that just to spend time as a family. How lucky are we, how special is this?! I wish the whole world could have what we have, so it is up to us to pass this along as much as we can. 

Dad and lessons

Some of my most important cottage memories are also some of most precious Dad memories, and vice versa. 

I think what really sticks in my head is when Dad would share of his wisdom, passion or wonder, but also just doing things ‘the proper way’.

One is putting hooks through worms for going fishing. I think this is at the core of why I am not a squeamish girl. I remember not wanting to do it, stick my hand into the styrofoam cup of dirt to grab a slithering innocent being to stick a sharp kinda rusty hook through it, ew. But the joy of actually catching a fish outweighed the grossness of the chore. It then became my quest to not waste the worm, or the effort of getting it onto the hook. I have felt the disappointment of wrestling with the slimy squiggly thing, just to cast the line and then see the hook come up moments later with just a morsel of worm or nothing at all. I learned to weave the worm onto the hook. To stick it in from tip to tail. We could catch a fish, release it, and still have some worm on the hook for the next cast. I don’t know if Dad was trying to get me used to gross things, or show me the lesson of perseverance, or just give me a chance to participate. But we went out in the wooden row boat, blue and black flecks of paint chips mixing in with my fishy, wormy, muddy hands, and sometimes came back with a fish big enough to eat, and that was pure gold! It wasn’t always worms. It was also minnows that I would catch for hours with the minnow net, then keep alive in the specially designed minnow bucket, then put on the hooks with the same fates as the worms. I recently had a boss who called me ‘tenacious’, and I think she meant it as an insult, but I take it as a point of pride, and fishing with Dad has been a foundational element in my tenacity. 

Watching shooting stars in the field, in sleeping bags and blankets, hiding from the cold and the mosquitoes, is another golden memory. While waiting for the next one to appear, I met and learned to recognize the big and little dippers, Orion and Casiopia, and now I always look for them in the night sky. Like so many other lessons imparted on me, I know I was shown more constellations, so I have an awareness of them, but I cannot as easily identify them. I think we can all agree that it would be great if I could be less chatty at these magical moments in nature. So I will savour just the thought of catching a star shooting across the sky and all of us gasping silently.

Finding tent caterpillars and trying to stop that plague is like identifying the source of the tobacco problem and trying to stop it. It’s endless thankless work, there will always be gaps in the system, but doing nothing is definitely a million times worse. 

I am now known for my great bbq chicken, and that is thanks to Dad teaching me the secret of using the lid and the burners to make the heat move around the chicken without singeing or blackening it. And marinating it for hours in the fridge with soy and Worcestershire sauce. Preparation helps to ensure easy execution in the moment. I have also learned -through -doing about why we light the bbq with the lid open (sorry eyebrows) and check the bbq each spring (sorry mouse families).