The sun is shining. The forecast had been for thunder showers, high winds, and cool temperatures. Granted, Environment Canada has been known to be wrong at times, but they never seem to err in a positive way. I jump from my bed and dash to the window, pulling back the drapes. The sky is blue, not a cloud in sight. I am greeted by a beautiful, warm, brilliant morning. What a day to open the cottage.
My wife had risen early and put breakfast on — bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee. I holler for the kids, “Let’s get up, time to go!”
“They’re already up and out,” says my wife. “Getting things loaded in the truck.” Sometimes they make me so proud. I head out myself and whistle for the two dogs. They come running and leap into the back of the pickup, slipping quickly into their kennels and settling down for the drive.
The journey to the cottage passes quickly. My wife stays awake and talks to me. The children watch the passing scenery out the window. I am not even treated like a remote control for the truck stereo. No, “Go to disc four, skip this song, or replay that song.” No, “Turn it up, I can’t hear!” Not even any yelps from my son directed at his sisters to, “Shut-up and quit singing!” In fact, we listen to old John Denver CDs, and everyone sings and laughs. Before we know it, we are at the lake.
I back the boat into the water. I turn the key and the engine starts immediately. We load things up and start across the lake, now smooth as glass. This strikes me as a little odd, as a pleasant breeze is blowing, mercifully keeping the blackflies away. I think of this incongruence only briefly, as my anxiety is focussed firmly on the island and the cabin. What disasters has Mother Nature wrought? What animals have invaded our domain? What trees have fallen in the winter winds, those that had stooped dangerously over the cottage roof — the trees I meant to fell in the fall?
Everything is perfect. The dock has stood up nicely to the thick lake ice, not slipping at all from its crib. The birch and pine trees beside the cottage stand regal and tall, swaying gracefully in the wind. Inside the cottage, everything seems as we left it in October. The mice have not found their way in. There are no nests to clean up, no droppings, not even a spiderweb to dust away. I stand in shock; my wife gives me a little squeeze.
I hook up the propane tanks and fire up the fridge. I take the metal screens off the windows, and then put the pump together. I pull on the handle and water gushes out. My children help sweep and rake, and then they carry the Muskoka chairs down to the dock. Without being told, they settle at the kitchen table to catch up on some homework.
“You’ve done enough for today,” says my wife. “It must be the cocktail hour.”
I raise the flag, and then settle into my chair. I’m handed a beer in a frosty mug. A family of loons swims around our little bay. The scene is postcard perfect. The sun is warm on my face, making me sleepy. I listen to the snap of the flag, beating in the wind. The waves crash on the shore, sounding like rain pelting against our bedroom window back home—
And the crash of thunder wakes me with a start. My wife elbows me and asks, “Where’s my coffee?” I hear the children yelling at each other in their bedrooms, “Quiet! I’m trying to sleep! DAD, Sean’s bugging us!”
I struggle to my feet, stiff, sore, disoriented, and in a daze. My wife asks if I’m all right. I open the curtains and am greeted by the flash of lightning. The wind howls, driving the rain against the house.
“I just had a bit of a nightmare,” I tell her. “It was sickening — everyone was acting weird.”
“Is the weather okay to head to the cottage?” she asks.
“It’s perfect. Are you ready for an adventure?”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ve been dreaming about this day all winter.”