Hello! I'm back from my week of traveling and unplugging. I'm the fourth generation to vacation on the same lake in Ontario, a little place in cottage country. I've never missed a summer visit, and I've often travelled up there in the fall to do some kayaking and photography, as well as in the winter for weekend snowmobiling trips.
The cottage, as you can imagine, is a really special place for the whole family. Quarters are cramped: There is a small kitchen and dining area, living room, and, recently added, a bathroom with shower. The cottage is fairly small, everyone sleeps in bunk beds in rooms with open ceilings.
A few years ago, I was usually the last person to bed at night, but now, it's my sister. At night, when I settle into my lower bunk, I can see the glow of the lamp she's using while she reads a James Patterson novel (lake favourites for their fast, easy reading), and I hear the creak of the old easy chair in the corner as she shifts her weight. More persistent than the creaking chair, however, are the sounds of my brother and my father's snores. My father's Statler Brothers tape plays on a cassette player in the next room over, the singers' voices slightly warped from time and excessive use. A dog (or two, or three) cozies up in the crescent shape formed by my body. My mother, having gone to bed an hour or more before, follows her maternal instinct out of her bedroom and into the living room, where she tells my sister that it is late and isn't she tired? I drift off to sleep knowing my sister has gone off to the bathroom to complete her night time rituals and will soon come back and climb into the bunk above mine. All I hear now is the sound of the forest outside my window and the occasional hum of the water heater turning on in the rafters.
Halfway through the night I will wake, hot from too many blankets and warm bodies next to my own in a tiny bed. I will think about shooing away the dogs, but know they are so happy to be there, so I will shed the blankets. In the early hours of the morning, I will wake again, this time chilled and doubtless halfway through a dream; the dogs will be lying on the pile of blankets on the floor. I will return to my dream, a dream about things that scare me or about things that do not. Being as relaxed as I am while I am here does odd things to my dreams, allowing my mind to take kernels of ideas and run with them in a way that it cannot when I am at home, stressed and anxious even as I sleep.
In the morning, I awake with the fog of a dream still in the front of my consciousness. I am the first of the children to rise. I grumble to the bathroom, all but ignoring anyone who I may pass in the kitchen on the way. I make my breakfast and coffee, and as with all meals up here, unless it is raining, I take my meal outside to the dock and enjoy it there. My parents are likely already finished with their food and are reading their books, or searching for signs of the day's forecast in the sky surrounding the lake. The only radio station available, MooseFM, might be broadcasting a song that was popular ten years prior through the kitchen window.
By late morning, my siblings and any guests have risen to greet the day and the family is laying out plans for the day. It will likely include one or more of the following lake-vacation activities: "Watersports," an all encompassing term meant to include skiing, tubing, "winging," etc.
A trip to the other, larger lakes in the spring-fed system.
Paddle boat, canoeing, kayaking.
Rope swinging, rock jumping, frog catching.
And a various sundry of other beautiful outdoor activities.
If it rains, books are read, epic games of monopoly and risk are played, and projects are completed in the woodshop - and the interesting thing is that I often remember the things that happened at night (games galore) and on rainy days better than the raucous good time that we had out on the lake.
A tangent: When I was younger, I was obsessed with building things, creating things - it comes from being the daughter of two engineers. In addition, I, like many other girls in my generation, grew up with American Girl Dolls. More important to me than the dolls, however, was the American Girl Magazine. It was like the Boys' Life for girls - except that it was unapologetically aimed toward building strong, creative, clever, independent young women. In fact the whole line of publications that American Girl produced during the late 90's - early aught's drastically shaped me, as a girl and as a person that went through person-type life phases.
I read (and possibly still own, somewhere on the bookshelves at my parents' home):
a rubber stamp depicting a heart and a crescent moon which I used to decorate my own stationary THANK YOU VERY MUCH (rubber sheeting, wood, wood glue, ink), hula hoop (also pvc and electrical tape), stencils for decorating tshirts and posters with spray paint...you get the idea. All off this happened on vacation at the cottage.
This post turned into a lot of different things, so I'll stop there. Needless to say, you can probably tell that the place means a lot to me. I'm so fortunate to have had something like this available for my entire life, and I sure hope my own future kids are cottage kids like me.
The cottage, as you can imagine, is a really special place for the whole family. Quarters are cramped: There is a small kitchen and dining area, living room, and, recently added, a bathroom with shower. The cottage is fairly small, everyone sleeps in bunk beds in rooms with open ceilings.
A few years ago, I was usually the last person to bed at night, but now, it's my sister. At night, when I settle into my lower bunk, I can see the glow of the lamp she's using while she reads a James Patterson novel (lake favourites for their fast, easy reading), and I hear the creak of the old easy chair in the corner as she shifts her weight. More persistent than the creaking chair, however, are the sounds of my brother and my father's snores. My father's Statler Brothers tape plays on a cassette player in the next room over, the singers' voices slightly warped from time and excessive use. A dog (or two, or three) cozies up in the crescent shape formed by my body. My mother, having gone to bed an hour or more before, follows her maternal instinct out of her bedroom and into the living room, where she tells my sister that it is late and isn't she tired? I drift off to sleep knowing my sister has gone off to the bathroom to complete her night time rituals and will soon come back and climb into the bunk above mine. All I hear now is the sound of the forest outside my window and the occasional hum of the water heater turning on in the rafters.
Halfway through the night I will wake, hot from too many blankets and warm bodies next to my own in a tiny bed. I will think about shooing away the dogs, but know they are so happy to be there, so I will shed the blankets. In the early hours of the morning, I will wake again, this time chilled and doubtless halfway through a dream; the dogs will be lying on the pile of blankets on the floor. I will return to my dream, a dream about things that scare me or about things that do not. Being as relaxed as I am while I am here does odd things to my dreams, allowing my mind to take kernels of ideas and run with them in a way that it cannot when I am at home, stressed and anxious even as I sleep.
In the morning, I awake with the fog of a dream still in the front of my consciousness. I am the first of the children to rise. I grumble to the bathroom, all but ignoring anyone who I may pass in the kitchen on the way. I make my breakfast and coffee, and as with all meals up here, unless it is raining, I take my meal outside to the dock and enjoy it there. My parents are likely already finished with their food and are reading their books, or searching for signs of the day's forecast in the sky surrounding the lake. The only radio station available, MooseFM, might be broadcasting a song that was popular ten years prior through the kitchen window.
By late morning, my siblings and any guests have risen to greet the day and the family is laying out plans for the day. It will likely include one or more of the following lake-vacation activities: "Watersports," an all encompassing term meant to include skiing, tubing, "winging," etc.
A trip to the other, larger lakes in the spring-fed system.
Paddle boat, canoeing, kayaking.
Rope swinging, rock jumping, frog catching.
And a various sundry of other beautiful outdoor activities.
If it rains, books are read, epic games of monopoly and risk are played, and projects are completed in the woodshop - and the interesting thing is that I often remember the things that happened at night (games galore) and on rainy days better than the raucous good time that we had out on the lake.
A tangent: When I was younger, I was obsessed with building things, creating things - it comes from being the daughter of two engineers. In addition, I, like many other girls in my generation, grew up with American Girl Dolls. More important to me than the dolls, however, was the American Girl Magazine. It was like the Boys' Life for girls - except that it was unapologetically aimed toward building strong, creative, clever, independent young women. In fact the whole line of publications that American Girl produced during the late 90's - early aught's drastically shaped me, as a girl and as a person that went through person-type life phases.
I read (and possibly still own, somewhere on the bookshelves at my parents' home):
As well as several books which appear to be out of print but I absolutely loved, including one about starting your own business broken down by industry (everything from lemonade stand to lawn care business to babysitting to greeting card company to zine author). Should I ever give birth to daughters, you can bet that these books will be gracing their own shelves.
Okay so long story short, I was a pretty industrious kid, and to this day, I've held on to the sentiment of "Well why would I buy something or pay someone to do something if I can make or do it myself?" I loved going with my dad to the hardware store, and he encouraged this behavior by purchasing tools and odd materials throughout my childhood...and a scroll saw for me in the sixth grade - I had asked for one. There was no better place for me to bond with my dad over tools than at the cottage. With his help I made countless 90's fads from scratch: Hobby horse (2x4's, yarn, paint, screws), my own set of "flip sticks" which, okay, did not look like the real thing but I am 100% serious that I played with my version even after a relative bought me the store kind for my birthday (pvc pipe, electrical tape),
a rubber stamp depicting a heart and a crescent moon which I used to decorate my own stationary THANK YOU VERY MUCH (rubber sheeting, wood, wood glue, ink), hula hoop (also pvc and electrical tape), stencils for decorating tshirts and posters with spray paint...you get the idea. All off this happened on vacation at the cottage.
This post turned into a lot of different things, so I'll stop there. Needless to say, you can probably tell that the place means a lot to me. I'm so fortunate to have had something like this available for my entire life, and I sure hope my own future kids are cottage kids like me.
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