300 km, Windsor to Kincardine, from the border of Detroit to the doorstep of the cottage. Due to the break-up, John was too jittery to drive. I took the wheel until he could compose himself.
This weekend was especially important for John; it was his birthday and an overwhelming number of families wanted to visit in celebration, including his father. Being the maternal cottage, Dr. Lea hasn’t been up since his wife died, and this was more important to John than anything else.
By May, the weekends are already booked past August at the cottage. It’s filled with rooms, beds, cots, couches that can accommodate more than a dozen people. Families come and go, and only Gramma Currie remains constant. For most of the year she lives in an apartment in town, but when it’s warm enough to live by the fire, the cottage is opened for lodging.
This time there was Ross, the cousin who’s since finished paying off his tattoo. There was Ray, husband of Fran, father of Heather, uncle of John, who eats his hard-boiled eggs by regimented routine: dash of salt, dash of pepper, scoop of margarine, scoop of yolk in sequence. There were all the associated families, about five in total, and even a few kids running around, making four generations of the Currie family.
I couldn’t even remember the last time I was here, but my last entry in the visitors log shows that it was three years ago.
The best cottages are off the beach, and the beginning of fall is the best time of year to appreciate such things. Even though the wind coming off the water keeps the area relatively cool, the summer heat can still overwhelm such delights.
There’s nowhere else like this.
My house was 650 km away, nine more hours on the road by car, bus, and taxi. On Sunday night, it was good to be home.
