spread over the cottage wall. I’m not sure, but it looks as if he was spelling his name.
I find Boomer sleeping on the deck, with an air of innocence. The truth being, he had nothing left to chew. Timba sits beside him looking mortified. When I throw her a questioning look, she shakes her head and lifts a paw, pointing it at the snoozing pup.
“Boomer!” I yell angrily. He bounds to his feet with tail wagging wildly, jumps up on me and starts licking my face. He seems to be telling me, “I love this place!”
Lost in Translation
Grandma and six-year-old Jenna saw the one-legged duck coming out of the bay. It hopped quite ably up onto the shore and grazed in the long grass that fringed the water. It had learned to lean over to the right, to balance itself and compensate for the loss of the left leg.
How it lost its appendage, we do not know. The children would later guess at a snapping turtle, a pike, or perhaps a crazed boater. Maybe it was a dog. The duck might have lost it as a duckling. He might have been born with only one leg. We can only guess. The reality was that the whole leg was missing, but he had learned to cope. Not just to cope, but to manoeuvre himself around on the grass with a dexterity that was very impressive.
Grandma had not seen this duck before, so she sent Jenna scurrying up to the cottage to fetch Grandpa, to tell him to come down and see.
“Is Grandpa coming?” asked Grandma, when the youngster returned.
“No, he’s already seen it,” answered Jenna, sitting herself back down.
“Really? He never told me,” said Grandma, a little miffed.
There’s a certain simplicity to life at the cottage.
“He said he saw it yesterday, he saw the leg fall off in the water.”
Jenna was quite matter-of-fact about what Grandpa had seen. Grandma was a little harder to convince. “What? Grandpa said that? He saw the duck’s leg fall off?” Jenna smiled and nodded; Grandma looked up towards the cottage in disbelief.
“He said he saw the leg fall right off when the water was high — he knows where he can find it,” stated young Jenna. Grandma envisioned herself packing the thin duck leg in a bag of ice and rushing off with the leg and bird to the nearest hospital to have it sewn back on.
Completely ambivalent that he was at the centre of what might become a domestic dispute, the one-legged duck hopped gamely back down into the water and floated gracefully away, through the reeds and out of sight.
Grandpa came down with a tray, some sandwiches, and drinks. Now, he has been married to Grandma for fifty years and can easily recognize the signs of danger. He was in trouble, but he had no idea why. So he did what brave men everywhere do when faced with the wrath of their spouses: he pleaded innocence even before being accused.
“What? I didn’t do anything,” he said — hands out to his sides, palms upward.
“You never told me you saw a one-legged duck,” chastised Grandma. Grandpa looked around the shore and out in the bay. “Well, he’s gone now! And why did you tell Jenna you saw its leg drop off?”
“I said no such thing,” harrumphed Grandpa.
“You said that, Grandpa,” accused the innocent young girl, sidling up to Grandma, knowing at a young age that women should stick together. “You said you saw the leg fall right off the duck.”
Grandpa stood open-mouthed, speechless. He looked at Jenna, and then at Grandma — both had their arms crossed and were glaring at him. Then he thought of something, and he smiled; all was becoming clear. This was all about a six-year-old’s pronunciation, and the hearing of a grandparent.
“The dock — I saw the pin drop out of the dock.” The ramp from shore to their floating dock sat at a peculiar angle. The water level had risen the day before, lifting the dock and causing the pin to fall off into the shallow waters. “I thought Jenna was telling me about the dock — I saw the leg fall off the dock.”
Grandpa has yet to see the amazing one-legged duck … the little troublemaker.
The Handyman
I’m not a handyman. I admit it. Even my kids recognize this. When a cottage project comes along that requires a little more of a craftsman’s touch, they say, “Better get Grandpa.” When I tell them that I think I can do this, they say, “Dad, stick to building fences and docks.” My wife, bless her heart, has a certain confidence in my carpentry skills. Either that, or she loves to see me make a fool of myself.
I know this, because whenever a new issue of the magazine Cottage Life arrives, I have to try to be the one to retrieve the mail. This way I can flip through the magazine and tear out any puttering, inventive, handyman projects that might catch her fancy. She’ll say, “We seem to be missing pages 94 to 102.”
To which I’ll shake my head and respond, “You really don’t know how magazines work, do you? They always keep a few pages in reserve in case a late, great story is submitted.”
Unfortunately, there are those times when I have to work and cannot hang around the mailbox all day. I get home and there she will be, leafing through the pages of the latest issue. “Oh,” she says, “you should come and see this. Think we [meaning you] can build it?”
So I try to build a bar trolley to wheel down to the dock. The wheels fall off on its first mission, and we lose half of our cocktail supply. Who knew you couldn’t just nail the wheels on? Then I build the fancy, floating dumb waiter to get drinks and lunch out to the swim raft. It sinks.
In the latest “Special Anniversary” August 2007 issue, there is a six-and-a-half-page spread, complete with photography and illustrations, describing the building of a two-seater wooden Muskoka loveseat that doubles, mysteriously, as a canoe rack. Not only a canoe rack, but also a canoe lift — it helps you hoist your canoe out of the water. I notice that my wife has dog-eared the page. What a dumb idea. Whatever happened to the days when you would canoe to the dock, reach down, grab the gunnel, hoist the canoe over your head, and carry it to the canoe rack on shore?
“We [meaning you] should build one of these.” She sees it as a romantic loveseat — that it is also a canoe hoist is of no consequence.
“But you could only sit in the chair if I was out paddling the canoe,” I whine.
“Exactly!”
I imagine myself paddling the canoe around the island, around the bay, pleading with her to let me dock for lunch. “Just a few more minutes,” she will say, “I just want to finish this chapter.”
Worse, I envision her sitting and flirting in the loveseat with Hunk Hankinson, the real handyman on the lake, who lives in the fancy, overbuilt, over-organized cottage on shore. I would be out paddling, and paddling some more, waiting for permission from my controller to begin my approach and land. Meanwhile, he would be pointing out all the flaws in my creation, telling her how he would have done it better, and they would both be giggling. I might be allowed brief docking privileges if their drinks were to run dry.
All this for a silly loveseat that transforms itself into a canoe hoist and rack. I see myself sidling up to the dock in my canoe, hopping
