Simcoe Day

A couple of weeks after the funeral, they went up to the cottage.  Up there, everything seemed almost normal.  After all, her Dad had mostly not been there all summer, just driving up when he had a couple of days off together, facing the traffic both ways in order to spend time with them.  They rowed around the point and picnicked on the rocks; and she gathered a couple of interesting looking pebbles, and thought of picking trilliums (and thought better of it, as usual); and then they rowed back to the cottage, with the dirty paper plates in the picnic basket, and burned them that night in the campfire along with the marshmallow that fell off the stick.
It was almost normal, except that it wasn’t.  Mom didn’t bother trying to roast a turkey that Monday, though she did buy a pumpkin pie in the village, which made it a sort of Thanks­giving—and Dad had always tried to come up for Thanksgiving weekend, if only because they needed to close up the cottage.  This year, it was only the two of them who hauled the rowboat up to the shed and stored the oars, drained the tank, and latched all the windows to keep out bears.

The weeks go by, and the weeks go by….

A police officer leaves a good pension; but, even so, her mother found it necessary to stop her part-time Skin Pretty sales and get a real job at the Bay.  So after school each day, Jenny came home to an empty house—but she was a big girl now, and old enough to have a key and take care of herself (though Mrs. Perkins next door checked on her more than necessary).  The skating lessons stopped because Mom was too busy to drive her and she wasn’t apparently big enough to go on the bus on her own.
One weekend she had to help turn out all her father’s clothes, mostly bagged up for Goodwill; and lots of “junk” went to the local bake-sale for the resident’s association.  Jenny couldn’t bear it; but Mom was firmly sensible about their loss.  There were, she said, poor people who needed the things that Dad couldn’t use any more, and it was time they moved on.  A few precious memories were secreted at the back of the closet in her bedroom; but the house looked oddly empty, and a photo by Mom’s chair couldn’t help with her homework or fix her bike.
Christmas was empty.  There were the usual presents, of course; but the two of them had to choose a tree all by themselves without Dad making his jokes.  Mom found it a struggle to get it in the stand; and Jenny wasn’t tall enough to hold it up properly or strong enough to do the wedging in.  Dad’s partner came by with a small mountain of store-wrapped presents, mostly for Jenny; and put the star on top, the way Dad always had—and Mom cried.  Which was horrible.
They did have turkey for Christmas.  Only neither of them felt like eating, and Uncle Nick didn’t come for dinner (again), so there were too many leftovers.  Warmed up for Boxing Day was usual.  Sandwiches with gravy were usual.  Croquettes were usual.  By the time school started and stale turkey turned up in her lunch bag for the first couple of days … not so much.

Mom insisted they go up and open the cottage on the Victoria Day weekend, the way they always did.  But, with her job, the two of them couldn’t simply move up there for the summer.  So it was weekends.  To save time, Jenny had to do most of the packing herself on Friday; and they joined the cars on the highway for long hot hours only to have to leave halfway through Sunday and come back home.  The first week, she forgot her underwear.  Mid-July it was the insect repellant.  Mom cared more about the panties, for some reason.
All summer, Jenny longed for the day when she’d be old enough to drive up herself and stay alone, heading over to the McTavishes to hang out with Sandy and Jill, or into town for ice cream with the whole gang of cottage kids.  When she was sixteen and had her licence, she could drive up herself.
Meanwhile, her old friends who spent the summer by the lake got on with their own lives; and, every weekend, things had changed again.  Friendships and fights and fun—all behind her back, as it were—and she was back in Toronto with nothing to do but kick a ball at the park with kids she didn’t really know all that well, or skate round and round the block on her own.  A bought hour at the pool was not the same as the lake; and Mom never listened when she tried to explain that life was wrong in the city, and the cottage was where they both should be all summer.
Being a weekender sucked.  Getting her pocket money docked for saying so sucked too—but not worse.  Nothing sucked worse.

The months go by, and the months go by….

High school meant new schedules and new friends.  Helen’s folks didn’t have a cottage, and neither did Sarah’s; and the three of them hung out at the mall and on the phone.  That summer, Jenny begged her mother to let her invite them up for the weekend; and it was great, more or less, except for Sarah not knowing how to swim (but they did have a spare lifejacket for the boat).
That Thanksgiving, Mom managed turkey in the old oven and homemade pie; and Jenny was big enough to help properly with closing up the cottage.
Next year, her mother talked her into being a candy-striper; and that took up most of her summer free time (and talk of a proper job next year).  Sarah’s family had moved; but Helen was still around, and had a boyfriend of sorts.  Mom put her foot down; but quick talking did produce a secret double date that Jenny never let on about, the more so since she didn’t really like the guy all that much.  Weekends at the cottage were now habit that sometimes took her away from more interesting things in town.  Roasting marshmallows was for kids—though they still tasted just as good.
If Mom had brought up once again the common sense of selling the cottage, Jenny might have agreed that it was time.  But she never did.

There was apparently a college fund; and not just what her parents had put away.  Some sort of legacy when Dad’s old partner died, which was nice of him.  (Of course, he didn’t have family.)  So she had her choice, as far as her marks would let her—not that she ever came close to failing, but she wasn’t one of the brains, either.  She opted for York, and lived at home.  When it came time to hunt for summer jobs, the old idea of being a lifeguard came up again:  she drove up in May in her beat-up second hand Ford Fiesta, opened the cottage by herself, and stayed until Labour Day.  She felt ridiculously responsible.  Mom visited her every weekend; and Jenny whisked round tidying up and cleaning the bathroom, knowing that there was checking-up going on each Friday night.  Dinner otherwise was mostly take-out.
There were even some of the old gang hanging out, some with their own jobs.  Cottage prices were high, though:  many families had cashed out and moved out, and newcomers formed their own cliques.  Still, Jenny found—as she had always found—new friends to fill her time off.
She kept in touch, and returned the following summer.

The years go by, and the years go by….

Her mother had been none too pleased after she graduated and decided to go to the Academy, following in her father’s footsteps.  She moved out to her own place, and packed up her room—at least the things she bothered to take.  A lot of old clothes got bagged up for Goodwill; and the junk of her teen years went to the local bake-sale for the resident’s association.  From the back of the closet she hauled out a box, looked inside again, debated with herself, and stuck it in the back of the hatchback with all the others.
That summer she almost decided not to bother with the cottage; but old friends drew her back for mid-week days off (except they were all at work), and the odd weekend when she could hang out as usual (until they eyed her cop-ness and thought of breathalysers).  She left a standing invitation with her partner and his wife, who only took the long drive once.  So it was her and Mom, mostly; and they rowed round the point with the picnic basket, waited the statutory hour before swimming, and built the campfire on the days it didn’t rain.  “No marshmallows,” laughed her mother, “or we’ll both get fatter than your Dad.”  Jenny, who worked out daily, went along with it.
She wangled the Thanksgiving weekend; and, as the two of them shut up the cottage as usual, suggested that maybe it was time to think of selling the old place.  It was Mom who demurred.  Someday, she pointed out (with that sideways look), Jenny’d want to bring her own kids—and cottage prices were sky high through the roof in the Muskoka district, she’d never afford to buy.
          Jenny shrugged.

Her husband worked from home; and, with the Internet, home could be anywhere.  So it was Jenny who made the commute from town; and her kids had the long hot summer by the lake with their friends.  Mom had given her the cottage outright as her wedding present, and drove out sometimes to babysit—or, at least, that was how it always worked out.  The walls of the cottage gave no privacy.  Sometimes, Jenny wondered why they bothered with the place, except that it made a perfect summer for the kids.
She got to the cottage late Saturday night, driving up through the dark after the Caribana parade was over, only to find that they’d already made their plans for the following day.  That hot August afternoon, they went blueberrying at the old patch—she was surprised it was still there—and, when they got back, the kids got to jump in the lake, while she rolled pastry and picked off stems.
There were plenty of berries for pie the next day, too; and the sky was clear, so she decided on hot dogs by campfire for supper.  She skewered dogs and toasted buns, and afterwards fielded the usual complaints over who had had how many marshmallows, and listened to the usual argument over golden or burnt, and then went in to get sweaters, since the wind was getting chill off the lake.
When the kids were finally in bed, the grown-ups sat out for a while in the dark, with the stars and the lake and the last flickers of firelight.
“This takes me back,” said Myra, softly.
“Mmmm.”
“A day like this.  It’s almost like your Dad could be here with us.”
“Dropping a dog in the fire.  You remember?”
“Nearly burned his hand off fishing it out.”
“Oh, come on.  He used a stick.”
“Which caught fire.”
It had been so long, she thought.  In books, people say they can’t even remember faces any more.  With the photos, obviously not true today, but—did she recall Dad’s voice?  Or did she only hope she did?
It was getting dark with the fire down to ash.  Her husband went for a bucket of water to kill the last sparks; and the two women went in.
“I’ve got to get an early start,” said Jenny.  “I mean early.  I should have headed back this evening.”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee,” said Myra.  “Don’t mind me, I know where everything is.  Shall I make Steve some?”  She headed for the kitchen.
“Thanks,” said Jenny.  She yawned.  “I’m turning in.  Tell him, okay?”
In the bedroom, she turned on the old duck lamp, and sat on the edge of the bed.  Better set the alarm for five.  It was a long trip back.