Cottage Life

This morning I rose to meet the sun. Before it had a chance to warm me, the coffee did, its swirls of steam vainly trying to echo the mist on the river. I sat on the dock and saw myself reflected, not in the water, but in the quiet.

The Constant Gardener

My favourite exchange during a lovely weekend in cottage country went something like this:

Laurie - I’ve only got a few beans from the garden so I’ll have to mix the country beans in with the city beans.

Dale - What’s the difference between country beans and city beans?

John - The country beans are poorly dressed.

Who Wants Treacle?

Mother Nature showed force late last week by wresting power from several thousand people in cottage country during a violent thunderstorm. This loss of electricity delayed the fun for many on the Canadian August long weekend. The minor delay in my plan to spend time dockside with friends at the cottage had some benefits.

Before we humans declared victory at making the power lines buzz again, I sat and adjusted to the sights and sounds I don't always get to enjoy in the city.

Diamonds of sunlight on the rippling river
Waves, not only of water but of people boating by
The flap of a flag as the wind kicks up, surprising it
A boat motor insistent in it's far off drone
Echoes of a dog barking a call and response to itself
Most importantly, my soul settling.

Yertle

Yesterday I visited a friend's cottage. The city air has been so charged with humidity lately that the offer of heading toward some cleaner country heat was a welcome one.

Once there, it was bathing suits and jumping into the river from the dock to wash the city away. After the intermediate splashing and swimming, I planned to sit on the dock and let the sun get to first base with me.

When it was time to get out, I swam until I hit waist high water. I started to wade back the rest of the way when I saw something moving to the right of me. There are often fish that will come to say hello when you're in the shallow water but this was something else.

I stopped and it came toward me and surfaced. A turtle. It was about 5 inches long. One quick look at me and it dove back under. The first thing I thought of was Jerri Blank's turtle Shelly. The next thing I thought of was the turtle I once had as a pet years earlier.

Shortly after my parents had traded me for a red paper clip at the age of 5, they realized their folly and bartered for my return. It had come to them that they could probably get all sorts of office supplies for me if they just held out. Once I had rejoined the family already in progress, they decided they'd have to work fast because I wouldn't be little and cute forever.

To buy my silence, I was given a pet turtle. It was a wee little thing at maybe 2 or 3 inches long and I loved to watch it swim and make it's way around the little plastic bowl.

The clear bowl was a perfect habitat complete with molded steps for climbing and a palm tree for lazing under. With my little can of turtle food, I felt very adult and responsible for the welfare of another living being. Until I forgot about it. I was 5. Don't judge me.

One day, I realized that I hadn't seen the little fella in a few days and asked mom what had happened to it.

Your sister took him to school to show and tell last week.

Show and tell? What's that?

Never mind. You'll get it back later.

I anxiously waited for sis to come home that afternoon. The moment she got in, I asked where my turtle was.

Oh, well, um, you see, he kind of won't be back since there was a bit of a problem at school.

What? What do you mean? What kind of problem?

Well, I left him there over the weekend and forgot to feed him so he kinda died. And then we dissected him in biology class.

Died? What's that? What do you mean bispected him? What's that?

Never mind. You'll get him back when you're older but only if you're really good and don't mention him again.

I never said a word. I never mentioned him again. I said my prayers every night and dreamed of the day we'd be reunited.

Eventually I was traded to a circus family who forced me to do odd jobs like trimming the bearded lady's toenails and making sure the ashtrays didn't overflow. I never said a word but those were some nasty toenails.

One day, I was surprised to learn that the bearded lady had a cottage. She invited a bunch of us to come over for a swim and while there, I spied a turtle in the water. I could tell by the way it poked it's head out of the water that it was the same turtle I'd been missing all these years. He was all grown up and letting me know that he was okay.

I smiled and realized that all those years of waiting and being good had been worth it.

That night I had the best soup I'd ever eaten.

Maybe I'm Amazed, Maybe Not

Whenever I've had occasion to visit other people's cottages, especially ones used by many different family members at different times, I've always enjoyed taking note of the different magazines and other reading materials scattered about.

You can usually count on a dog-eared Reader's Digest from 1974 (complete with a I Am Joe's Ingrown Toenail article) cozied up to an Architectural Digest which mightn't be quite big enough to cover the stack of National Enquirers. Then there are the books, any classic from Lawrence Sanders and John LeCarre to Sidney Sheldon and a well worn Harlequin or two.
I'm refusing here to acknowledge any sort of novelty bathroom reading. Damn.

On a recent visit to John's cottage, I came across something that at first frightened me. Fright turned to fascination and wonder and from there it was all fits and peals of laughter.

Here was a new sort of magazine previously unknown to me. Now, I've heard of scrapbookin' as an art (heh) but I'd not imagined that it was something that merited it's own magazine.

I'm still not sure it does.

Who knew there were so many ways to put a photo in an album and fancy it up? Not I.

Really, ideas on how to use scraps of coloured paper, stickers and other doodads to help adorn photos and keepsakes is about all I could make it out to be.

This must be the terrain? domain? insanity? of some very bored and possibly unhappy people. Careful that you don't spend so much time framing those little photos into manufactured memories that you forget to make real ones.

The simplest photo of you just standing there potentially could become so adorned at Mom's hand that it might just be forced to become fraught with meaning.

remember that time? you remember! we had just come from that thing and you said that funny thing about the other thing and then we went here and there and then something else happened and I bought this ribbon and you were standing there so I took the photo and arranged the ribbon under the corner of the photo in this album just so, remember that? that was a nice time wasn't it dear? remember? yeah, it was nice

It all reminds me of those people who go on vacation and camcorder every single thing never taking their viewer eye away from the machine for fear they'll miss something to bore everyone back home to death with. What about actually experiencing the moment? Don't let the photos / video become the memory.

Anyway...

The most gratifying section of the magazine was not the one that showed me what to do with those leftover paper doilies from my last tea party but rather the networking list of the many scrapbooking outlets throughout the U.S. of A., Canada and even extending into the U.K.

Try on the names of some of these scrapbooking stores for yourself.

I find it helps to announce the names aloud in your best pageant voice for the national televised audience.

Scrappity-Do-Dah!

Scrappin' USA Superstore

Scrapbook 'n' Such

Crop-Paper-Scissors

Scraptopia

Whim-So-Doodle

Scrap 2 It

Scrappin' Attack!

Scraptastic

and those were really just a very small sampling. Most have their own websites too so feel free to order lots of shiny things from them.

My cottage will only have serious magazines such as People and real literature like Harry Potter.