Cottage Daze by James Ross

came close to the mainland they would wave at me. I would wave back.
    They envied me for my work and the money I was making. I envied them their freedom. If I stared out too long the boss would yell down to me, “Done those canoes yet? If you’d rather be over there playing, you best go, I’m not paying you to daydream.”
    I spent the summer staining cabins and painting trim, moving rocks and splitting and stacking wood. When boats sidled up to the dock, I would stop what I was doing, run down, and top up their tanks. They would ask me if I was one of the Ross boys from the island. They would tell me about where the fish were biting on the lake. They would warn me of the big storm that would hit the next day. I would take the information home, and sometimes it would be right.
    When people wandered into the little confectionery store, I would act as clerk or cashier. Sometimes I would exchange a couple of hours of work for some ice cream bars for my family at the cottage.
    At five o’clock quitting time, as I stored the metal weed whacker and the ancient lawn mower, I would see our boat leave the dock and head my way. It was a great feeling, the end of the workday. I would get back to the cabin and throw on my swim shorts — wash off the day’s dust and grime in the lake. Dad would take me for a spin on the skis. Mom would clang the dinner bell.
    I remember it as a summer when I was leaving my childhood days behind. After a five-day workweek, I would be given fifty dollars. I had never seen so much money. My wages went to a new slalom ski from Canadian Tire, bright orange with a yellow dragon. It still hangs in the boathouse today, and when I take it down and see the cracking and rotting thick rubber footholds, feel the scratches and chips that are a testament to years of use, memories of my first job, and an amazing summer, come flooding back.
    The Perfect Storm
    The day had been hot and humid. The lake had been calm. We enjoyed some swimming and skiing, and now, at dusk, we light a driftwood fire on the rocky point.
    Before we see the sky darkening up the north arm, we feel the weather changing. It seeps into your senses, and your mind tells you that the last time you felt this way, a storm was coming. Not to let you feel too good about your instincts, however, you realize that it was an hour ago that you noticed the loons calling each other in a frantic way; now they have disappeared. Your dogs snuck quietly away from the bonfire and have undoubtedly crawled under the porch. Only the gulls play in the approaching blow, riding high on the wind and then arcing back low over the water.
    The wind quickens with shocking speed. It blows the water into a rugged chop, whitecaps curl over, and trees begin to bend. Lightning at first lights the distant sky like small explosions. As it moves down the lake, you can see the jagged forks touch the water. The storm gets closer. Waves crash into the rocky shoreline. A lone fishing boat motors quickly for shore.
    We douse the fire with our bucket, although I am certain that the coming rain would do the job for us, and then we gather up everything and head for the cabin. Towels are pulled from the clothesline and thrown into a basket. The children secure their toys and tubes, and I make sure that the boat is covered and made tight to the dock. The wind howls through with more velocity, so we have to shout to hear each other. I tie down the canvas door of the kid’s wall tent. The flag flaps noisily.
    Here at the cottage, a storm brings a wild and astonishing beauty.
    We light the propane lights and oil lanterns in the cabin, and the children pull out a deck of cards. I sit outside under the covered porch; the howling wind and rolling waves leave me feeling serene. The rain hits suddenly; it does not start slowly but gets thrown down. Horizontal drops pelt the cottage windows and buffet me under the porch roof — so I sneak inside, and we all gather to watch