go out to see if the dogs are all right. She thinks she has heard the crash of a tree as it hit the privy. She wonders aloud whether the swim raft has broken its moorings and floated to the far end of the lake. She thinks I should go check on the boat. I watch the lightning touch down nearby, and wonder whether getting life insurance with her encouragement was such a good idea.
The storm rages for about an hour, and then the clouds move off to the south, the sound and light disappear over the distant hills. The lake calms perceptively, and the stars come out. Still, the children decide they will sleep in the loft rather than the tent tonight. I wander around to check on things. The island smells damp and cool. Besides some broken branches and boughs, all is well.
I love a good storm. I recall being caught outside in many. I remember canoe trips, scrambling to get tents set up when a squall hits, and mountain storms on horse pack trips, trying to get horses fed while the wind whips your long slicker and rain streams from your hat. Nothing beats a cottage storm, when you are warm and cozy, under the soft glow of the oil lamps with a fire burning in the wood stove, looking out at the sound and fury over the lake.
At home, a storm like this would have brought worries of power outages, surges, driving problems. Here at the cottage, it just brings a wild and astonishing beauty … the perfect storm.
Holding the Fort
Some stories are better started at the end.
My wife, sister, and brother-in-law, back from a shopping expedition, came walking into a cottage thick with smoke. The cabin was a disaster. There I stood, my pants soaked in an area that suggested I had wet myself, hot dogs smeared into my jeans and scattered about my feet, the charred remains of something inedible visible on the oven rack behind the open stove door, and my shirt ripped and tattered and scorched black. On my face was a smile that probably looked quite idiotic — but it was simply meant to calm the horrified expressions that greeted me and to convey the message that all was okay and you won’t believe this.
Their worry was not for my predicament, however, which became evident when the ladies asked loudly in unison, “Are the kids all right?”
“Oh, yes.” I had forgotten about them.
“Where are they?”
“Oh — they’re out there.” I made a sweeping gesture with my hand, indicating a wide radius where the children might be found. “They’re on the island — somewhere …”
My wife gave me a practised glower. My sister shook her head disbelievingly. My brother-in-law smiled — he had one-upped me in the constant understated competition of looking good to the spouses.
Now, perhaps it’s best if I go back to the beginning.
My sister has always thought me totally inept in all things responsible and domestic. It was with a countenance of worry that she had begrudgingly agreed to leave me in charge of our combined seven children, while the three mature adults headed to town to restock our provisions.
“Don’t let them play too close to the water. Don’t let them play with the axe or the chainsaw. Don’t let them play with matches. Don’t encourage them to swim to shore.” And then to her oldest boy the heartfelt plea — “Watch over your brothers and cousins, please.”
In their absence, I was determined to prove my sister’s lack of confidence misplaced. I went back to my work, sealing the cracks between logs and around window and door frames, but diligently, on the quarter hour, I hollered out into the thick forest asking if all was well. Each time, the response was affirmative. On the occasion of my fifteenth check, I received the response, “What’s for lunch?”
“Hot dogs!” I bellowed, wanting to sound like I had a plan.
So back to the cabin I went, lit the propane oven, and tossed in a dozen buns. I placed a pot full of wieners and water on the gas element, then flicked my butane igniter — poof, easy. I hung up the lighter, very pleased with myself. I felt my stomach getting quite warm. I looked down, and to my horror saw that my paint-stained, soiled work shirt was afire. I patted it gingerly with my open palm, which made a “whoosh, whoosh” sound as it fanned the flame. Now, I knew what I was supposed to do in an emergency like this, but I was alone in a cottage far from civilization, and I would have felt quite silly rolling around with this small flame burning on my belly. So I waved my hand harder, which served to both spread the fire and knock the pot of wieners and water from their stovetop perch — water unfortunately soaking my pants but avoiding the fire.
I rolled on the ground. I wasn’t burnt, but it was a mess. Then I heard the boat docking. I panicked and looked for the broom — seeing instead black smoke billowing out of the oven.
Now, in this, the last chance I will ever be afforded to “hold the fort,” I did learn a lesson. The spray-in foam insulation is very flammable before it cures. So, if you’ve been working with it, guys, and wiping your hands on your work shirts, be very careful to not burn your wieners.
Death of a Dog
Unfortunately, I have buried many dogs in my lifetime — such is the canine business that I am in. But the one who lies beneath a stand of old cedars on our island’s highest point was the first to be laid to rest at the cottage.
The day before had been like any other at the lake. The sun was warm, and we had spent the day playing in and on the water. The dog had run his usual distances, watching over the children in their play, keeping his eye on us, making sure to miss nothing and that nothing was amiss.
Macky was not only a pet, but also a sled dog and my leader. He had worked by my side for years, helping me to earn my living. When his winter work was over, his happiest days were when he saw us loading up the truck with paddles and life jackets, propane tanks and fishing rods — criteria for him that signalled a trip to the cottage. He loved coming to the island because it meant a world of freedom, a place surrounded by water where he could run to his heart’s content. Nothing ever escaped his attention, especially if it smelt of trouble or adventure.
When I woke from the boathouse bunkie in the morning, Macky was not there to greet me, as was his usual custom. I found him sick and distraught, lying under the boughs of an old spruce. He groaned. His stomach was rock hard.
Death had joined Mack to the placed he loved.
The day was dark and stormy. Thunder bellowed from the west and sheets of lightning lit the water. I picked up the dog and ran for the boat. The remoteness that was a desired part of our cottage escape was suddenly an enemy, and the drive to town was long. We made it to the vet in time to see the dog’s last breath, and I knew that if this had not happened at the cottage, perhaps we could have prolonged his life.
I wept gently as I dug the hole for Macky, hacking away at tree roots and prying out rocks until it was sufficiently deep. I laid the dog’s muscular, handsome black and white body inside, tucked in his enormous paws, and used his old sleeping blanket as a shroud. On my hands and knees, I packed in the damp, spongy brown soil with a flat-faced shovel, pushing it down until the hole was full, swollen with its new burden. Then I marked the grave with a flat piece of granite I pulled from the lake.
When this was done, my children joined me looking down at the mounded earth. My oldest cried with me, as we both knew we would never again see this old dog running wild at our cottage. My youngest, not fully understanding, tilted her head back and looked up at me, concerned for my tears. She thought it was only she who wept.
We
