.... where family is the source of humor!

Cottage Living by Howard Denofsky

Summertime memories are often as warm as the temperatures associated to season. Howard shares, with Humor Is Relative readers, an excerpt sharing his memories of time spent at a summer cottage - and the mixture of memories behind the memories of those summers.

Cottage living is different for everyone and is definitely not for everyone. My father used to say that he never wanted to own a cottage because he didn't want to have to go back to the same vacation spot twice, 'especially if that site is bug-infested, hot water deprived, and where comfortable sleeping arrangements are more than just a location.'(italics are paraphrasing my father's words, although somewhat broadly).

My immersion into cottage life came when I met Barb (all names, except for my own, have been changed to protect everyone involved), whose last name was Jones at the time. That was 28 years ago. The whole Jones' group definitely had and still has a strong work ethic. I used to think that my own work ethic was pretty good at the time but was nothing in comparison, especially where it came to mowing, raking, painting, shoveling, building...you know, the kinds of things that "only" when the job is done can the fun begin.

The Jones' cottage is located in Bala, Ontario, about a two-hour drive north of Toronto. It sits on approximately an acre of land overlooking Moores Bay, which juts in to the left when you boat in from Bala...just beautiful! Water activities have always been great...the water skiing, swimming (although the swimming is probably closer to the bottom of my list of favourite things to do), tubing, canoeing (another one of my least favourite activities), going down to the Bala Falls and standing under the falls where we can pretend that no-one else can see us (the old peek-a-boo game).

When I came on the scene, the cottage was about half the size it is today. There was no front porch, a kind of welcome mat for the hoards of mosquitoes just waiting for the evening to come to an end so that they can take turns wreaking havoc on every living soul within sticking range. This seemed to be like a game they were playing where their own deaths meant nothing except that another one was close behind. Not only would they leave a noticeable reminder that they've accomplished their task; but also the constant buzzing which seems to penetrate one's eardrum and leave a template on the part of the brain responsible for memory.

After a while even when they're not around or feasting on someone else, the mere mention of the word 'mosquito' can activate a full bodily response as if you've become the last meal for a man sentenced to lethal injection. I can still remember many nights when as soon as I would turn off the lights that the buzzing began and they would start to circle around. I would begin to feel every muscle, one by one, tightening, as if bracing for battle and a battle it was.

Unfortunately they were much better prepared than I was, as if they were toying with me just waiting to sense my defeat when I would simple offer my flesh for the taking. They didn't know whom they were dealing with! With any swatting device in hand, I would get up and start mapping the walls like a grid, looking for any resting insect and then take great satisfaction in locating and destroying.

I must have looked like one of the Green Beret on leave from front line fighting. This was a battle I felt I simply had to win. I felt I was doing a service to all those who were sleeping soundly and felt that it must have been because of me that the others could be so much at peace. In the early years I could have injured myself from the beatings I gave myself trying to swat the mosquito when it saw my face as landing pad. If a mosquito could smile, I think that would have been a time.

Those were the early years. Then the front porch was built and the live-in mosquito population was reduced. However the outdoor population remained unaffected. This is where raking becomes front and centre. There is this idea moving through the Jones' clan that by raking every pine needle, leaf, and grass from the water's edge back to the property line behind a garage, that the mosquito breeding grounds would be eliminated.

The garage I referred to may have been built to be a home for the cottage itself. The initial thought was to replace an old boathouse that was almost exactly the size of the boat itself and where the motor would be positioned to sit inside a tire, which was placed over a hole dug for the propeller. The new 'boathouse' which, by the way is sitting on an old badminton court, has a roof pitch unlike any other. Absolutely nothing could possibly remain on the roof. It looks like a two-storey building without the second storey.

There is a picture of me standing on a ladder at the front doors of the garage. I'm not sure what I was doing except to give the appearance that I was an active contributor to the 'Jones' Work-Until-You-Drop Group'. The only thing missing was the moat, stock piled with venomous snakes and alligators to keep out intruders.

Now let's return to the raking, for the summer could not possibly begin until the raking was done. Every year for the past twenty-eight years and usually sometime in June (black fly month), we would make the trip up to Bala, having gathered three or four rakes and loaded them into the van. If there was any hope of being able to put this experience behind me, the following year would bring it back to life again.

First we'd rake one pile, then another, until the entire acre was covered by mounds of mosquito nurseries, at least that's what I was told. Then came the blankets to put these piles into, only to be hauled off to be dumped into a wooded area of the next door neighbour's lot.

Now, this family outing which starts in the morning and seems to come to an end by late afternoon comes at different times depending on the individuals involved. If you happen to be a Jones, then the brain appears to shut off and the body takes over, moving in a constant, regimented fashion, covering every square metre of the property, where only maintaining the necessities of life are the only intrusions to this 'wonderful day of family bonding'. The wearing of bug nets, apart from keeping us from succumbing to mosquito and black fly attacks, also portray an image of an alien invasion. A spell has been cast.

This labour-intensive day has been viewed as essential. The summer could not possibly go on until all the bug breeding grounds have been disrupted and millions, maybe billions of mosquitoes and black flies have been driven out of Bala, or at least to the neighbour's property, about ten feet from the Jones' driveway (better them than us, I guess).

I'm not sure if this is a decision of the matriarch, and others have simply been hypnotized and robotacized, or is this just one of those generational- hand-me-downs that nobody questions or objects to. Nobody asked me! I have been known, however, to offer a comment or two about this brand of 'justified' torture. Work stoppage or slow down does not occur when the body feels tired, or the mind begins to hallucinate and creates scenes from better days. I remember having conversations with myself, telling myself, 'it will soon be over'.

At times, when I would actually lose myself in the work, my worst fear was becoming realized. I was becoming a Jones. Jack, my brother-in-law, was like a wind-up toy that never unwinds. He would move about the property with rake in hand, waking up every grass follicle...behind bushes, under rocks, behind the garage, and around tree stumps. It would take a trained Jones' eye to know that these places even existed. From a distance, Jack would look like Pacman moving through a maze as if seeking to escape, but there was no escape.

All of a sudden I am reminded of the days of getting buckets of water for the toilet. This was before flushing was invented (at least in the Jones' cottage)....ah, the old bathroom before the renovation...an area of about three square feet. The most interesting aspect of this container was the shower. It was great if you were about three feet tall. For me, the shower nozzle came to just below my solar plexus. In order to get the full spray, I felt I had to do the limbo, which was no east feat. By the time I was able to contort my body in such a way as to get most of the spray, the hot water had just run out. Needless to say a good sense of humour is essential.

I don't want to leave the impression that I don't enjoy spending time at the cottage, because I do. There have been great times and I'm sure there will continue to be.

I think we revolutionized tubing. This is not a sport for the 'you-go-first' kind of person, at least not the way we do it. We started with a black truck tire tube, which we lovingly refer to as the 'beast'. The only thing that keeps us on is the strength of our own arms and the positioning of our bodies.

Of course, the challenge for the boat driver is to land us in the water in the shortest time possible. If this isn't enough, we then include a second tube, one that the rider can sit inside if he or she wants, but that is strongly frowned upon. At this point, while the one rider is desperately holding on to the 'beast', the rider in the other tube attempts to jump onto the 'beast', sometimes to the surprise of the beast pilot. Sometimes the riders actually exchange tubes, although not always successfully. When you are looking death (particularly your own) in the eyes, then you know the fun has begun.

We have begun to include such feats as pyramids of up to six people, head stands, and even tube jumping, where one tube actually shoots over the other tube, with the occupants looking relieved that no decapitation has taken place, although bodies have been known to fly off and land somewhere in the surrounding waters.

We are only limited by our own creativity or stupidity. When tubing is not on the agenda, the skis are brought out, or the Frisbee or football is being thrown...and laughs, well there are plenty of those.

Now, if anybody could do something about the damn raking and those damn mosquitoes, and convince the powers that be that comfort is a good thing, then all would be right in the world, at least my world. Perhaps one day I may even convince the group that the addition of a dishwasher is an essential service, but I doubt it! For twenty-eight years I have worked very diligently trying to convert this group that I have taken on as a life project, but I must say that they are not easily converted. Well I better get back to work. The summer is almost over.

Humorous Book Recommendations:             [ view all ]
Clinical Dialogues In Family Therapy
[Howard Defonsky; 176 pages]
Cottage Living is an humorous excerpt, shared with readers of Humor Is Relative, from his, otherwise, serious book.

If you think you are too small to be effective, you have never been in bed with a mosquito.
-- Bette Reeves

Humor Is Relative thanks Cay Dickson, from the Houston Chronicle, for the compliment!

People who claim they don't let little things bother them have never slept in a room with a single mosquito.
-- Anonymous

Think you have a witty story about your family, or moment being a parent, that our readers will enjoy? Review Humor Is Relative submissions guidelines and submit your story! Who knows, we just may like it!

When you are a mother, you are never really alone in your thoughts. A mother has to think twice, once for herself and once for her child.
-- Sophia Loren Women And Beauty

Meet Humor Is Relative's contributing writers!

They do certainly give very strange and new-fangled names to diseases.
-- Plato [c. 427 BC - 347 BC]

More Recommendations: When a Family Considers Therapy
[Howard Defonsky; 108 pages]