I’m on the gravel road again heading north, the birds are chirping, the waves are crashing and the streets are bare. No one is on the road, instead they are in their cottages or on their deck on the water. The drive is mindless up to my cottage and quiet, just how I like it. I always wave to my friends the Stewarts a few blocks down from me. I pull into the driveway where my grandparent's candy apple red Toyota is. The dogs start barking when I pull in and I hear my uncle yell “Hey homeslice.” I chuckle to myself, remembering I have to deal with his nonsense the whole weekend.
As soon as I get in the door, my grandma is standing, waiting for me and ready to direct me to which room I’ll be sleeping in this weekend. I was usually the floater—the one who didn’t have a partner or was under 50 years old, so flexible enough to plop anywhere. Everyone had a designated room beside me. I had one when I was little until my stepmother kicked me out when she came along, so since then, I have been a drifter. I say my hello’s to everyone, throw my bags into someone’s room and enjoy the summer day on Lake Simcoe in Brechin Beach. Minutes later, it’s time to crack open a drink because if you didn’t, you’d sure stick out. Country music plays in the background as we enjoy each other's company.
My cottage holds special memories and is the image of my childhood. We used to have beach parties a few doors down where all the kids would have minnow races and the adults, well I wasn’t paying attention to them so I actually have no idea, but they were probably drinking. Our cousin would ride his ATV and hitch a buggy with rainbow balloons to the back for us young ones to sit in to get to the party. That lasted until I was about ten, but the active memories would live on. We would play on the swing set, jump off and be covered in dirt, play popcorn on the trampoline and someone would always get whiplash and start crying, play basketball and horse with a handmade wooden backboard attached to the volleyball net that my uncle made, we would swing our hammock upside down and try not to fall off, and lots of tag and grounders games, especially at the Brechin legion, it was the easiest way for the adults to get rid of us.
Without question, every weekend we would go tubbing as well. We would scream at the top of our lungs and sing an inappropriate song my older cousins taught me as a superstition to never fall off, and for me, it worked. To this day, I have only fallen off once and that was with bloody knuckles. We did other water sports like knee boarding—I almost drowned—and my uncle continues to ask me if I want to go knee boarding after that traumatic event.
As I sit on the dock with an open drink and the freshwater smell of the lake, everything is perfect here. Life is good. Everyone is happy and not worried about a thing. Bonds grow stronger as there are new memories being cherished as we are much older. Birthdays, anniversaries, engagements, all of it was included until a red, obnoxious sold sign was posted on the fence. They say all good things come to an end. But whoever said that never experienced my cottage.
