Cottage Daze (17 page)

In the midst of all the holiday merriment last year, my youngest child, Jenna, then six years old, caught me completely off guard when she asked, “Dad, is there really a Santa Claus? So-and-so at school said he isn't real.” I looked at her: her big green eyes told me that she wanted to know the truth, but she also was very hopeful that the truth was what she wanted.

This was not in line with those other queries: “Will Santa find us if we spend Christmas at the cottage?” Or “How will Santa make it down the chimney when you have the fire roaring?” No, this was a point-blank question about the truth. “Does Santa Claus really exist, or is it you and Mom that put all those presents under the tree and fill the stockings?” In other words, “Have you been lying to me all my life?”

It's that question that many parents fear, and coming from her, the youngest, it means the end of the line, the end of an era, the death of the jolly old man himself. Sure, you can tell her that the spirit of Santa Claus lives on, that he will always be a part of Christmas. No longer will there be that wide-eyed wonder, that child's absolute faith that Santa would arrive in the night, eat up the treats left for him, and crowd the bottom of the Christmas tree with presents for all the good boys and girls of the house.

Our oldest is fifteen now, so we have spent that many years perpetuating the myth. We would take it further. In the dark of night on Christmas Eve, I would sneak up on the roof and clop around like a team of reindeer. My wife's father would show up in a Santa Claus suit, ringing a bell and singing out, “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas!”

We would let him in and he would chat with the girls, sounding a bit more like an old Chief of the Shuswap Nation addressing the Tribal Council than a jolly old elf from the North Pole. Our first child would screech mightily, and why not? Here was this funny looking, white-haired, bearded man dressed in a stylish red suit and sporting dark sunglasses to mask his true identity, showing up at the back door coaxing the youngster to come and sit on his lap with the promise of a present. We should have been proud of her trepidation, rather than insisting that she play along.

Fifteen years we have been able to enjoy the children and the Santa Claus story. Now here, with one simple question, it all would end. “Santa is half real, and half made up. He is real in here,” I say, tapping her noggin. “He is part of your imagination. And because he is real in there, he is a very important part of all that is Christmas. Not the most important part, but an important part for both children and old guys like me.” I expected anger (she is a bit strong-minded), or for her to be upset, but she simply smiled, nodded, and sauntered off.

Thankfully, we usually have lots of family around for Christmas. Jenna has her two young cousins visiting — later that same evening I hear her explaining to them that they must get to bed so Santa Claus will come. She tells them that she thought she saw Rudolph's red nose blinking in the night sky, leading the way into cottage country through a December snowfall. She helps them set out a little tray of snacks and a glass of milk.

Perhaps it never ends. When my oldest daughter reached that age where she realized we were fibbing about Santa, she just bought into the game. She kept the dream alive for her younger siblings. Ditto for the other children, who each in turn kept alive the magic. Someday they will spin it for their own children. Maybe, after all, Santa does indeed exist. He is a very real part of our Christmas psyches. Just listen very carefully, and you might hear the beat of reindeer hooves on the roof and the jolly laughter that warms a Christmas Eve night.

Winter Journey

It is during these short, cold, snowy January days that one starts to pine for summer at the cottage. I daydream about swimming in the lake, skiing, boating, drinking morning coffee on the dock, sitting in the Muskoka chair with a good book in the afternoon sun, and enjoying a bonfire in the evening — no longer dressed in boots and parka, just shorts, T-shirts, shades, and flip-flops.

Outside now, it is snowing and blowing, and I must bundle up, get out, and do a little more shovelling. There is, however, a certain beauty in this frozen world. I remember our first trek to the family cottage in winter. It was more than thirty-three years ago, shortly after my folks had purchased our island retreat. Crazy or brave, or perhaps simply adventurous, they had decided to take their four children on a long trek to visit the cabin in winter.

At that time, the backcountry roads were not kept open through the snowy months. We could drive our vehicle to within eighteen kilometres, no closer. We had no snowmobile. Our plan was to ski down the packed road and across the frozen lake, hauling our gear and provisions behind on toboggans, like Arctic adventurers on a trek to the Pole.

We set off in state of excitement, gliding down the trail, hauling our loads gamely up and down the sweeping hills. Pines were shrouded in heavy snow that blew off and swirled in the wind. Before we had travelled too far, our kid brother, tired from his hundred-metre walk, hitched a ride. The family basset hound trotted gamely ahead, but was not any help. Sometimes he would chase rabbits, falling off the packed trail, and we had to help him out of the deep powder.

We skied along for half the distance, and then removed the skis and tied them onto the sleds. Off came the ski boots, and we rubbed our frozen toes. We trudged on in winter boots. The miles stretched on, our exuberance waned, and our legs grew heavy. The first sight of the lake was like the first glimpse of water at the end of a long portage. With renewed energy we hopped on the loaded toboggans to glide down that long descent to the shore.

The lake in winter seemed even more remote and solitary, surrounded by stark, barren, trackless hills. It was also most serene on this late winter's afternoon when its snow-covered ice was deeply tinted with the gold of the setting sun. We had made it, but before we could get into the cottage we had to grab shovels and dig out the deep snow that had drifted in front of the door. We got a fire started in the box stove, not realizing that it would take hours to chase out the winter chill. Finally, exhausted, we huddled where the heat gathered first, high in the open loft, cuddling mugs of hot chocolate our mom had made.

Dad stoked the fire with maple and birch logs, and cooked up beef stew in the cast iron bean pot set on the fire. Toques, woollen mittens, snow pants, felt boot-liners, and parkas were hung from the loft railing to dry — the cottage looked like a laundry. The hound curled on the hearth rug, thawing and licking snow from between his pads. Gradually, the log walls soaked up the heat and gave the cottage a cozy warmth.

The passion of the huskies for their winter work transforms a trip to the cottage during the snowy months into a great adventure.

The next morning we shovelled a path to the privy and chopped a hole in the ice for water. We strapped on our beavertail snowshoes and headed out into the dense groves of naked birch and poplar, the snow-laden stands of pine, cedar, and balsam, that seemed so thick, black, and impenetrable. We dug snow forts, threw snowballs, and did some ice fishing.

Since I purchased the cottage, I have not made that winter trek with my own family. Hockey schedules, school activities, and weather seem to get in the way of dreamy plans. Perhaps this March we will put the skis on and set off on our own adventure. They plough the road right past the lake now, so it would only be a couple of kilometres across the frozen ice to the cabin. I have replaced the basset with huskies, and their passion for winter work will make the journey easier — they will pull the gear. Perhaps it will be too easy and less memorable.

So, as I look outside my office window at the blustery Muskoka winter's day, I embrace the memories of that first winter journey to the cottage. It was a hard trek, but an unforgettable adventure.

The Cottage Rink

Every winter I debate with myself whether it is worthwhile to put all the time and effort into the building of a little backyard rink that the kids can enjoy. Every year I come to the conclusion that the rink is more effort than it is worth, more work than reward. There is a lot of shovelling, clearing, flooding, and building, and then when the rink is getting near perfect, the weather changes and warms and we get a little rain.

Still, when the cold weather comes in late November, I instinctively go out to put up the rink boards and set up the light standards that will allow the sheet of ice to get used after dark. Hockey dads are constantly trying to build the perfect backyard rink; boards and lighting and benches to tie skates, painted blue lines and red lines and regulation nets. One home rink nearby has PVC piping running from the home's eavestroughs to channel the fall rains onto the tarp catchment that covers the floor of the enclosed rink. It is a masterful way of flooding the ice.

We enjoyed a New Year's party last winter outside at another neighbourhood rink. It was big — not quite Olympic size, but certainly spacious. Boards surrounded the playing surface and fine netting was hung at either end as puck catchers. A large, long-handled squeegee was used to clean the snow off the ice between periods. Light standards allowed for after-dark play, and a roaring bonfire warmed the spectators, as did the hot rum toddies and the ring-in-the-new-year champagne.

Then there are the attempts at manufacturing the perfect ice flooding machine. While I use the old garden hose method, water dribbling out and freezing solid to my gloves, others have built fancy, portable, hand-operated rink waterers, steel pipe frames with attached rubber mats that distribute the water evenly. Some have taken this a step further and tried to attach these systems to their lawn tractors.

While the dads have aspirations as Zamboni drivers, the youngsters would rather aspire to be their hockey heroes. This one shows up in a Crosby jersey, that one has a Stamkos Lightning sweater, and these two siblings have Doughty and Weber Team Canada wear. This finely appointed bright young fellow wears Leafs colours, while that slightly misguided dunce wears the bleu et rouge of the much-hated Habs, so I don't allow him to play … just kidding.

The outdoor rink cleared on the cottage lake is the ultimate in Canadiana. All you need here is a well-frozen bay or pond, and some help from Mother Nature. She needs to serve up some bitterly cold weather before sending us her snow. Often the cottage rink is a shared venture, with many neighbours helping to clear and maintain the ice, sometimes drilling holes and then flooding the rink with portable pumps. And the more the merrier when an energetic shinny match is played.

A couple years back we took our small-town Atom-aged hockey team on an overnight getaway to a bayside cottage off the French River. It was a perfect year weather-wise for ice. The temperatures had turned biting cold for a whole week until the bay had frozen solid and smooth as glass. Any snow that fell afterwards was swept away by the wind, blown into drifts along the shore. The skating rink was perfect. We set up two nets and divided up the players and then we played … no offsides, no rules, we didn't keep score.

At first we had boundaries fixed in our heads, about half the size of a small arena, net to net with some space behind. As we got heated, jackets were discarded and left as markers where the sideboards might have been. Then a puck was fired hard and wide and it glided off over the ice. Suddenly the game spilled over into the endless space, players with sticks and toques skated in a jumble over the frozen lake.

While the adults took a break, the kids skated off for miles in a straight line and shot pucks that no arena boards would confine. They skated fast and hard and jumped skiffs of blown snow, tripping and hooking each other, laughing and playing the ultimate game of keep-away. No referees, no coaches, no rules, and no parents yelling from the stands, nobody taking it too seriously. Just freedom and speed and movement and grace, outside in the cool, crisp air. The cold and the winter wind put a glow on their cheeks.

And when they had skated their miles, had covered every corner of the frozen bay, they skated back to the warmth of the bonfire for hot chocolate and to catch their breaths. Once warmed, they were off again, darting like the summer water-bugs, this way and that over the ice. It was beautiful. It was the best of hockey, a game of shinny on the cottage rink.

Cottage Dreaming

Men never grow up. They think and act like children. That is my conclusion, having conducted recent research.

The Spring Cottage Life Show at the tail end of winter is the stage for my investigations. It is the perfect time to check out all the new cottage products, the toys and gadgets that, in our minds, will add both comfort and excitement to our summer days. I'm especially excited this year because we have brought the kids along — which means more fun for a dad than simply having to trail after a spouse on an agonizing stop-and-go trek through the endless aisles of Martha Stewart–like interior exhibits. No, cottage life should be about fun in the outdoors, not inside entertaining. The kids won't put up with the monotony of furniture, crafts, and cutesy knick-knacks, I reason. Meaning this visit will be about fun and toys and … then comes the letdown, in one simple sentence.