Cottage Life

By Gail MacMillan

Then followed that beautiful season... Summer...

Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape

Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Each year opening up the cottage is an adventure. As we drive onto our property, we're alert for any changes that have occurred during our six months' absence. A new cedar has popped up in the hedge. And just look at the holes a Pileated Woodpecker has made in the dead tree by the gate. There appears to be a fresh crop of squirrels and chipmunks, too. The roof looks good, husband Ron acknowledges pragmatically, while I'm more concerned with seeing if the tulips I planted last October have poked through the earth by the front step.

Then, with the turn of a key, we open a place that has lain fallow all winter. It's as if time has been on pause since we left last fall. Nothing has changed except the atmosphere. Dark and silent and chilly inside, the cottage needs to be awakened from the months of winter dormancy. I hurry to pull up blinds and open windows.

Renewed life and spring flood in as Ron turns on the electricity and the refrigerator begins to purr. Dust and cobwebs stir in the breeze as I peer about for evidence of a mouse or squirrel invasion. It wouldn't be the first time the cottage hosted a rodent family.

Thirty years ago we'd desperately wanted a place in the country (Tabusintac in northeastern New Brunswick, to be exact). But we had three children under the age of five, financially crippling student loans, and little more than the clothes on our backs and a secondhand Volkswagen Beetle as assets. We had exactly one hundred dollars with which to purchase land and building, so our dream of owning a rustic retreat seemed destined to remain in the realm of wishful thinking.

Then Ron discovered a small, abandoned cabin in the woods. Even though its windows had long ago been broken, its door sagged inward on a single hinge, and numerous squirrels, birds, and a raccoon couple were in residence, it appeared structurally sound. It definitely had potential. Ron quickly offered the owner half of our vacation home money for it. Totally amazed that anyone would want it, she readily accepted.

Next Ron convinced a kindly neighbour to pull the little shack out of its isolation and down to the corner of a hayfield we'd managed to purchase with the remainder of our cottage fund. (Later we'd expand to include shorefront in our domain but this was a beginning.) I can't say I was overjoyed when I saw it, but it was the best we could afford and, as Ron had said, it had potential. Or at least four walls and a roof.

While Ron fixed the windows and door, I tried to sweep and scrub away the evidence of its former tenants. Then we moved in, with no electricity and definitely no indoor plumbing. An outhouse we'd salvaged from the local garbage dump became our toilet. All five of us participated in carrying water from a spring one quarter of a mile away.

Keeping up with our demand for water required constant and unflagging teamwork. Three or more times a day we took buckets and pots and headed off in a group. Steve, the smallest, carried a teakettle.

Our neighbours were astonished that we could live under such conditions. The hippie era was drawing to a close and they must have regarded us as its last remnants.

The kids didn't care what anyone thought or how minimally we lived. They loved being able to run free in the hayfields and trees that surrounded our summer home. Each spring, as the school year drew to a close, their anticipation mounted. They got busy planning new activities and adventures and reminiscing about the previous summers' fun. They couldn't wait to get back to the cottage. For them, the joys of country living far outweighed the lack of amenities.

Ron and I were also eager to head back to the country. We loved the freedom from all but family responsibilities that life at the cottage offered. We regarded the lack of a telephone as an asset.

Then "C" day would arrive. We'd pile a summer's supply of clothing, blankets, and books into the Volkswagen and squeeze the kids and our two dogs (a Beagle named Brandy and an eighty-pound Labrador Retriever named Jet) into the back seat. Finally, with a smile in our hearts and a song on our lips, we were off.

The first meal at the cottage traditionally had to be wieners and marshmallows roasted over the old charcoal burning hibachi we'd pull out from under the front steps. And no matter how blackened the food became in the cooking process, it always tasted like haute cuisine.

As darkness fell, we'd slather ourselves with insect repellent and huddle around the hibachi that we turned into a smudge pot by adding handfuls of green grass. Then we'd listen to the frogs' medley in the magic country quiet and watch the stars appear in the soft black velvet that was the night sky.

"Look! There's the Big Dipper!"

"I see the North Star!"

In the warm, gentle darkness, we'd gaze upward and find (or at least believe we'd found) the various constellations.

Days at the cottage were never dull, either. Without television and toys, Joan, Carol, and Steve had to use their imaginations and what they could find outdoors to amuse themselves. They made swings in the trees using discarded tires and rope, rafts for the river from driftwood they found along the shore. These skills would prove valuable in adult life when their jobs required them to come up with fresh ideas.

They were enthralled with the birds and animals that lived in the forest and fields and on the riverbanks, and they developed a deep and lasting respect for all wildlife and its habitat. This fascination inspired Ron and I to teach them to appreciate the environment that supported these creatures and ultimately, ourselves. We explained the evils of littering, the necessity of obeying the golden rule of camping — "Pack out what you pack in and leave only footprints behind" — and how wild flowers and creatures should be enjoyed and left in peace in their natural setting. They listened attentively, then applied our advice in their daily rambles.

They discovered the succulence of blueberries, raspberries, and the tiny wild strawberries that grew in profusion behind the cottage. After we'd assured them that it was okay to pick and eat these tasty treats, they quickly developed their own harvesting philosophies. Joan picked and ate. Carol, destined to become a chartered accountant, picked and saved. Steve watched his sisters for a while, then did what he considered the best of both methods. He ate some and saved others.

Their quest for berries took them farther and farther afield. One day in their wanderings they discovered the ruins of an old hunting lodge. It quickly became the centre of many of their games. Like three small musketeers, with two dogs trailing at their heels, they made and shared summer adventures and projects. Isolated from other children, they formed deep and enduring bonds. They even devised coded nicknames for each other that still fondly surface whenever they're together.

Last year, when someone commented to Carol that the movie The Blair Witch Project was frightening because of its forest setting, she was amazed.

"When we were kids at the cottage, the woods were a wonderful, happy place," she said. "We'd take a pillow, a blanket, a Nancy Drew book and go there to read. We always felt perfectly safe and content there. I can't imagine anyone thinking it's a scary place."

Evenings were definitely family times. We'd often explore trails in the nearby woods, hoping to see bird and animal life, then return home pleasantly tired and ready for bed. We also invented a unique after-supper game of hide-and-seek. Ron and I would hold the dogs while the kids darted across the field and into the woods to hide in the trees beyond it. Then we'd release Brandy and Jet to seek them out.

It was never much of a chore for the Beagle, given his innate scenting abilities. Jet usually just lumbered good-naturedly along behind him, confident in his canine buddy's skill. The bottom line was all seven participants enjoyed the game immensely.

One summer Ron purchased a second-hand sixteen-foot outboard motor boat. At first we were ecstatic at the possibilities this new mode of transportation offered. Soon, however, our enthusiasm was tempered as we discovered the old boat had a propensity for breaking down.

Undeterred, we christened the cantankerous vessel the good ship Undependable and adapted to her idiosyncrasies. We learned not to venture too far or too deep and accepted the frequent necessity of towing her home as we waded through the shallows. Once again, it was a family effort with only the dogs remaining aboard to act as Master and First Mate.

These occasions, although at times mildly aggravating, quickly fell into the realm of just another adventure of the Canadian Family MacMillan. They became the stuff familial legends are based upon and taught the kids the importance of maintaining one's sense of humour and sticking together in adversity.

As the years passed, the cottage expanded and got electricity and indoor plumbing.

We celebrated when the first light bulb clicked on, shouted as if we'd hit oil when the first water spouted from the hole in the yard, and happily slept on a plank floor on the first night after two new bedrooms had been added. The cottage was maturing.

But so, of course, were the children. During their teen and college years, the cottage fell largely fallow. With friends and part-time jobs monopolizing their waking hours, they lost interest in country life. Ron and I, not willing to leave them at home unsupervised, didn't get many opportunities to enjoy its rural charms, either.

Sometimes during the brief visits Ron and I would make to check on the old place, I sensed a certain sadness within its walls. Looking out a rear window I saw, in memory, three small, sturdy, sun-browned figures in shorts and T-shirts running barefoot across the field, laughing in pure delight, a Beagle and a Labrador Retriever galloping after them.

The vision brought the sting of tears to my eyes, a lump to my throat. The days were long gone when the old cottage's board walls had echoed with the whoops of children's exuberance and its screen door had slammed multiple times a day on their comings and goings. Now it sat quiet and subdued in the shade of the trees we'd planted with the youngsters so many years ago.

Then, suddenly it seemed, all three offspring were on their own, working, getting married, having kids of their own. Ron and I returned to the cottage, alone except for a new pair of dogs. Forced to accept the emptiness of our nest, we'd decided to turn the cottage into our retirement retreat and began to renovate.

We put in a basement, new plumbing and electrical wiring, added a large deck and a gazebo. Phones, televisions, and even a computer took up residence. The cottage was adapting to the twenty-first century.

Then the kids started returning, fond memories of a happy childhood drawing them back. They brought friends and partners. Our backyard sprouted tents and other camping paraphernalia.

They visited their old haunts and were amazed at how high up in the branches their old tire swings dangled. Trees, like children, grow a lot in fifteen years.

And if I'd once feared the cottage would miss the patter of small feet up its steps and across its old board floors, that problem, too, has been remedied. Last summer Daniel Wilson MacMillan, our first grandchild, arrived at the cottage. His daddy Steve pushed him proudly about in his stroller, showing him where he'd played as a little boy and although Daniel is still too young to grasp the significance of what his father is telling him, I know that someday he will understand.

Later when he splashed about happily as his mom Michele gave him a bath in the kitchen sink, his giggles told me the cottage had come full circle. A new generation of MacMillans has been woven into the fabric that is our family and the little shack from the backwoods will continue to be a basic thread.

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