My Friend Danny

Posted on April 4, 2018 by James Ross

I wrote about my friend Danny Limburn, a Falkland Islander who visited my family often. This story was read at his funeral in 2018. Seems to me many of my stories are made into eulogies!

We were never quite sure whether Danny could swim. He had lived in the Falkland Islands for some forty years, where swimming in the frigid South Atlantic was probably not a priority.

“Danny, can you swim?” we would ask him, to which he would never really give us a straight answer.

“I’ve lived around water all my life,” he would reply. “I’ve lived on and off the sea. When I was but 18, I jumped a boat from Wales to the Falklands.” And, as if to settle it once-and-for-all, “I used to go to the pool when I was a kid.”

I took Danny up to our island cottage for the first time in May, he was going to help me open up the place. We carried a big 100 pound propane tank down to the dock to load it into the boat. Danny took a step backwards, when he should really have taken a step sideways. My swimming question was quickly answered when he sank like a stone. I heard the splash, and then saw his cap floating on the lake surface.

I darted over to the edge of the dock, and looked in the clear water. I saw Danny’s shiny noggin, now bare, some twelve feet down. He was thrashing about on the bottom of the lake. I thought for a minute or two about jumping in to help, but hesitated from being heroic, knowing that the ice had only recently left the lake, and the May waters would be quite frigid.

Finally, he bobbed up to the surface with a huge excel of breath, “Haaaaaaaa!” I grabbed his soggy coat by the shoulders and flung him onto the dock. Danny loves his tea, usually consuming some 16 cups a day. He needed one now – that, and a seat by the wood stove.

Danny is, what you would call, a colourful character. Give him his cup of tea, and sit him by the wood stove at the cottage, and he will keep you entertained for hours, spinning yarns of his days on the Falkland sheep stations, sheering, gathering, and riding the barren, rocky, desolate landscape. He has an uncanny memory for people and events, and a wonderful way of making the ordinary seem quite extraordinary. The children also love his tales, especially when he tells his Falkland ghost stories around the evening bonfire. These tales of the macabre are all the more spooky and sinister, because Danny believes them to be true.

I met Danny shortly after I was married, 16 years ago. I guided him on a horse trip through the Canadian Rockies. We became friends, and he has returned many times since, firstly to our BC ranch, and now to our Muskoka home and cottage. He is like the hero of an old western novel or movie, a lonesome cowboy, riding into town, helping around the homestead, and then riding off into the sunset when his good deeds are done.

We work side by side, bucking, splitting and stacking wood for the cottage stove. He demonstrates his English touch in the garden, coaxing the impossible to grow in the rocky soil. We replace some dock boards and shingle the porch roof. We work ourselves into a grimy sweat, and then take a break, sitting back on the steep pitch, he with his tea and me with a cold beer. Ink-black clouds are looming over the lake, and the wind is whipping the water up. It reminds Danny of a story, a sudden deranged squalor that he faced while riding the range in the Falklands, a storm that has him sheltering at a haunted, old, ocean-side shanty. Everything seems to remind Danny of a story.

Danny left Muskoka recently, flying off to Australia. in search of new adventures, new stories to tell, and a new audience. It is a little quieter, and a little less interesting with him absent. He is a colourful eccentric who, through happen-stance, has threaded his life into ours. He has visited the cottage, and his early Spring dip has granted him an important place in our cottage lore. And I know he will put a much different spin on his swim when he tells the tale during his travels.

Another cottage guest who will no doubt return … my friend Danny.

Cottage Dreaming at the Cottage Life Show

Posted on March 21, 2018 by James Ross

I visit the Cottage Life Show in Toronto to get myself ready for the upcoming cottage season. Problem is, I have to hang around with my wife when I want to hang with the kids!

Men never grow up. They think and act like children. That is my conclusion, having conducted recent research.

The Spring Cottage Life show at the end of March is the stage for my investigations. In the midst of this never-ending winter, it is the perfect time to check out all the new cottage products, the toys and gadgets that, in our mind, will add both comfort and excitement to our summer days. I’m especially excited this year because we have brought the kids along – which means more fun for a dad than simply having to trail off after a spouse on an agonizing, stop and go trek, through the endless aisles of Martha Stewart-like interior exhibits. No, cottage life should be about fun in the outdoors, not inside entertaining. The kids won’t put up with the monotony of furniture, crafts and cutesy knick-knacks, I reason. Meaning this visit will be about fun and toys and … then comes the let-down, in one simple sentence.

“Why don’t you kids wander around on your own, and we can meet back here in an hour. Your dad and I want to check out the new cottage kitchens.”

No! They will be climbing in and out of fancy new boats, checking out the latest in canoes, kayaks, catamarans and wind surfers, sitting dreamily on jet skis and hiking themselves out on some racy sailboat like a crew-hand in the America’s Cup. The girls will lounge briefly in the cushioned seats of pontoon boats imagining themselves hanging out with their friends in bikinis, while my son will play with the steering wheel of a ritzy cabin cruiser while envisioning himself as some multi-millionaire yacht owner. They will be kicked off a good many vessels by salesmen wanting to impress more legitimate customers. The kids will try on the latest water skis and boogie boards, bounce on water trampolines, practice fly casting, and try to climb into futuristic hot tubs. I want to be with them.

Instead, my wife and I are hanging out staring at soapstone countertops that are “as attractive as they are durable and not only impervious to heat and stains, but virtually maintenance free.” I run over to a wine tasting exhibit to help me get through this, and then catch up to my darling wife drooling over a mammoth pine harvest table with eight sturdy plank chairs. “Wouldn’t this look good at the cabin?” she seems to be asking me, and I probably would have heard her, had I not been looking off with envy in the direction my four youngsters have wandered.

She stops and listens to some talking head extolling the virtues of something called “Sham-Wow,” and then I see her take out her wallet. She hands me a small, square piece of very expensive felt and tells me she bought it for me to clean our old boat – “fellow said it would be just like new!” I run back over to the wine exhibit, swirl a Shiraz around in my mouth and tell the person that poured it, “Ah, full-bodied, with a distinct note of black cherry and a hint of pepper, if I’m not mistaken,” or some such thing that I had memorized from the information card.

We meander through some food exhibits and sample feta stuffed mini pitas and little nibbles of chocolate cashew buttercrunch, so small that they are only a tease. We dip pretzels into little dishes of various sauces, while a lady explains to my wife the fine ingredients whilst glaring at me undoubtedly recognizing the classic vacant look of the typical double-dipper. A spicy chili concoction has me running back to the vintner exhibit, only to find that I have been cut off.

Finally, mercifully, the hour is up, and we hasten back to the rendezvous point. Perhaps seeing my pain and sensing my agony, my compassionate children beg me to come with them for a brief look at all they have discovered. I cast my eye on the elegant lines and shining chrome of a polished mahogany launch. The kids drag me onward to the fancy ski boat, envious of all the bells and whistles, especially the enormous stereo speakers that I’m sure would be heard all around the lake. If that’s not loud enough for them, they marvel at a jet boat. With exclamations of approval, my son watches a video clip that shows the enormous, space-age craft zooming around a lake, belching fire out of its back end and sending a plume of spray 100 metres in its wake.

My wife stares dreamily at a sporty Hobie Cat, I’m sure taking her back to the sailing days of her youth. There is a sleek wooden row boat, and I imagine rowing it around the island and over to shore each morning, a great way to get into shape. I show it to my wife, who imagines herself sprawled out in the bow sipping red wine, while I get into shape. Something new for the cottage dream list, somewhere ahead of the flatulent jet boat, but surely well behind a harvest table.

Cottage Prepping

Posted on March 11, 2018 by James Ross

Things get out-of-hand at a simple wine tasting festival. No fault of my own, of course, I blame it on the wine!

It always seems in early Spring that my wife and I get restless. It is the drawback of the island cottage, there is a period of forced absence. We have to wait until the lake ice melts away before we can open up the place. It is that forbidden time, usually from late March to mid-April, when the ice becomes unsafe. We can only stare from the mainland out to the island.

We will usually take advantage of this sabbatical by doing some cottage prepping at the Spring Cottage Life Show, to see all that is new and fanciful for cottage living. This year, however, we decided to do something a little different, so we trekked down to the big city a weekend earlier and took in the Wine and Cheese Show. It represented a virtual round-the-world taste test, to find that ultimate wine to sip on the dock in the late afternoon after a busy, fun and productive cottage day, or that full-bodied red to compliment the thick steaks that I would have cooking on the barbecue.

We started at the show wandering up and down each aisle, savouring the best vintages the world had to offer. While some of those standing around us would swish around the tastings in their mouths, gurgle it like mouthwash, and then, and what’s the sense in this, spit it out into some stainless steel spittoon, we would take a sip, close our eyes, and imagine ourselves laid out in a lounger on the cottage deck with the sun warming our face, or sitting around the big pine kitchen table enjoying a fine meal. While others would talk about their wine exhibiting the beautiful sweet nose of spring flowers and a taste of such richness that it massages the palate with the flavours of chocolate, gooseberries and leather oxfords, we would ask which offerings might best repel blackflies. There is nothing worse than swallowing a drowned insect in one’s robust merlot.

We sipped Italian Chianti and decided it would compliment a cottage comfort meal of spaghetti and meatballs. We tasted an Argentinian Malbec and muttered “mmm – steaks on the barbecue.” We swirled around a Pinot Noir from New Zealand, a Californian Cabernet and something unpronounceable from Great Wines of China. China? – really. It wasn’t bad … we decided it would go nicely with Chinese. The great wine regions of Ontario were well represented, Strewn from Niagara and Crew from Erie – great for the cottage we decided.

We sipped our way through most of the afternoon, and for most of the day our romantic city escape and cottage prepping plan seemed well founded. Then, two things happened. Firstly, we started to realize the value of using the spittoons. No matter, we had wisely booked into a local hotel and had taken a shuttle to the show. Still, the wonderful wines had probably clouded my judgement a bit, and had made my wife less tolerant. Wandering down one of the last aisles I came across a wine tasting seminar being advertised. “Get Naked With Wines” it was called. I stared in at the young, nubile speaker and immediately signed us up.

When the pretty vintner swirled around wine in her glass and said things like “you have to check the legs, the lighter the wine the faster they run, the fuller, the slower,” or “a slight hint of melons and the essence of candy,” or “this is likely a little more body than you’re used to,” I thought she was speaking directly to me. Worse than that, my darling spouse thought that I was thinking that she was speaking directly to me.

Cottage Prepping! We have some newly discovered wines we want to savour dockside. I can swirl a rich, robust wine around in my glass, look over at my wife and proclaim, “beautiful legs.” Perhaps that will get me back in the good books. Or, maybe, such tasting theatrics are redundant, a good bottle of red sipped at our favourite place on earth will suffice.

Remember When

Posted on August 30, 2017 by James Ross

Sitting around reminiscing about the fun family times we have had. Raising kids can be a whirlwind, that goes by far too quickly.

“Remember when the sound of little feet, was the music we danced to week to week.” (Alan Jackson)

What I will call the ‘quiet season’ is upon us, as our kids are back to school. For us, that means we are down to one left at home – the other three are off in different directions. It is just my wife and me at the cottage this weekend. I remember when we looked forward to getting some alone time here. Years ago when we were surviving the hustle and bustle of a particularly wild and chaotic week at our island escape with the whole clan, we would look into the future with envy. “It will be nice when we can have the place just to ourselves,” we would say. “It will be so peaceful.”

Well, those days are here. The kids have grown up – they grew up so fast that we almost missed it. Now, even in the summer, they don’t make it to the cottage as much. They no longer enjoy the uninhibited freedom of youth; the reality of grown-up life is upon them. They have to work through the summer to make enough money for the next school year. Now they are off again to university. So, my wife and I sit with our morning coffee, amongst the peace and quiet of a cottage morning.

“Remember when?” we will say, first one of us and then the other.

“Remember when,” I reminisce, “your oldest daughter, (they were always my wife’s kids when they were misbehaving or careless), fell on that rock when she was running through the water.” She had casually commented that she had cut her leg, when in fact her shin was slashed so badly I almost passed out looking at it. She needed a major stitch job. A beauty mark we call it now.

“Remember when,” responds my spouse, “the girls would spend the whole afternoon snorkelling off the shoal on the point in search of treasure. Oh, the trinkets and fishing lures they used to find.”

Remember when they stumbled over that wasp nest while playing in the forest. It was like a cartoon, the kids came screaming and running towards the cabin with a swarm of angry wasps hot in pursuit. Remember when our son built that raft out of logs and rope. We thought it would never float, but there he was, like Huck Finn, paddling his homemade raft around the bay. Remember when the cousins came for a visit and we would practically never see the kids, except when they were hungry. They would have their own games, and their imaginations ran wild. All we would hear from them was hollering and laughter, and every once in a while we would catch glimpses of them running through the woods like ghosts.

Remember when Grandpa and Grandma would join us. No matter how hard the children tried, Grandma would always trick them and be first into the lake for a swim. Remember when we would sit around the bonfire in the evening and Grandpa would pull out his harmonica. Or we would play a board game, something we only did at the cottage when the family was all together, and everybody, young and old, looked forward to it.

In the boathouse my wife has arranged a collage of old sepia-toned black and white photos set on colourful pallet frames. The photos are all cottage scenes, snaps of the kids having fun, laughing and smiling in the midst of all sorts of cottage activity. Many of the photos were taken years ago, when the children were much younger – well, I guess we all were. I often stop and pause in front of the pictures; they bring a smile to my face.

My wife and I sit here on the dock as another cottage season speeds away, and share the memories. We look at each other, laugh and say, “Remember when?”

Into the Blue

“Remember when we said when we turned grey, when the children grow up and move away; We won’t be sad, we’ll be glad, for all the life we’ve had – and we’ll remember when.”

Happy Making Waves

Posted on August 16, 2017 by James Ross

I always enjoy seeing two motorcycles passing each other on the highway or on a winding cottage road, the way the drivers give each other that two-fingered side wave. It is a very cool gesture; calm, casual, stylish and trendy. It says, “We are brethren, kindred spirits simply because of our chosen mode of travel.”

I have tried to get the same sort of sophisticated acknowledgement going when I pass another driver of a pickup truck. I want to start my own trend. So I hold my arm out of the open window, (something that since childhood your mom always warned you against lest a passing vehicle takes it off), clap my palm on the door and give a one-fingered waggle. It just doesn’t catch on. The other drivers give me an icy, unfriendly stare that says, “Are you a bit odd, or are you perhaps just mocking motorcyclists?” Hmmm, maybe pickup drivers are just not fashionable enough – perhaps it would work better if I drove a family minivan. Maybe other minivan drivers would be more hospitable.

I tried something similar when I was peddling my mountain bike down a narrow trail, I gave a passing cyclist what I thought was a very groovy hand-waving acknowledgement. Not only did the other bicyclist not return my friendly gesture, but I was so focussed on my own savvy signal that I lost my balance, teetered out of control and crashed into the trailside tangle. I guess I should have used my bell.

I thought that the only way I could gain any sense of satisfaction was to invest in my own Harley, or at least a small scooter. I wanted to join the motorcycle fraternity. I brought the idea to my wife, who simply scoffed and waved me away. At least even the idea of owning a motorcycle had garnered a wave!

Then, feeling downcast and sullen, I decided that a day on the water might brighten my mood. I took my pontoon boat, Big Red, out for an afternoon’s outing on a certain Muskoka lake. I passed a runabout going the other way. Everybody on board waved at me. I passed a sleek jet boat and the same thing happened. I passed a 100 year old man in a polished wooden dippy and he raised a hand in salute. I passed a sumo wrestler on a jet ski and he gave me a fashionable wave, without even losing his balance. Canoeists waved, sailors waved, people in all shapes and sorts of marine vessels passed and waved. I boated in and out of the channels to pass as many boats as possible. Everybody waved. I waved back excitedly, frantically, like some kind of lunatic – or at least so said my kids.

People on the docks waved and I waved back, but then realized that the people on the dock were all young men and not waving at me but at my daughters on board. “Get a boat if you want to wave!” I yelled. A rower waved and a wake boarder waved; everybody young and old, big and small waved and was friendly. A kayaker waved quite energetically, although, in retrospect, perhaps they were waving frantically at me to slow down or keep away. No matter, nothing could dampen my sense of comradery.

Well almost nothing. I waved excitedly at the police launch – and they waved me down and asked if I had been drinking. I hadn’t, of course, I was just happy. They checked my boater’s card and safety equipment and waved me on my way. I was just thrilled to be part of the boating fraternity – elated to be part of any network for that matter, or at least one that waved at each other. What a wonderful, welcoming, sociable bunch boaters are and I am just so delighted to be finally making waves.

A Canada Day Beaver Tale

Posted on July 1, 2017 by James Ross

A friend of mine was attacked by a beaver. Now, don’t laugh, it’s true. He told us so himself. We were at the cottage and there were a few of us, outdoor types, sitting around the campfire exchanging bear stories, when he joins in to tell us how he was nearly mauled by this plump rodent. You can imagine our mirth at his little yarn – we all shared a good laugh. He was serious though, and visibly shaken recalling the experience.

This friend is a forestry worker, a consultant. As such, he spends much of his time in the outdoors. He is in the bush through all seasons and in any weather, sunshine, rain and snow. Until the time of the attack, his only worries were the occasional black bear, and the black flies and mosquitoes that torment him each Spring.

He has a dog that accompanies him on his wilderness treks, a Siberian husky that loves the outdoors, the adventure and the exercise. Well, not too long ago as he was busy working in the bush, our friend heard the dog barking nearby. Now huskies are not natural barkers, so he deemed the disturbance worth investigating.

He found the dog facing off with a rather large beaver – the beaver was confidently eyeing the canine. Fearing for the beaver’s well-being, this caring forestry worker called off his well-behaved husky and ordered it to stay at a distance. He was fascinated to see this beaver so far from any water. There was no pond, lake or river in the near vicinity. As he was admiring the pluck of the adventuresome mammal, he was shocked to find himself under attack.

The beaver charged, and our poor friend was quickly back-peddling. The awkward looking attacker darted in with more speed than seemed possible. Our hero dipped and dodged, weaved and wobbled, until he found himself with his back to a tree. The beaver gnashed his large front teeth. It seemed like curtains for our friend, but like a well-written movie, he found a large stick lying by his right hand. Just in the nick of time, he stuck out the broken branch and held the ferocious creature at bay.

The beaver backed off a little and, seizing the opportunity, our brave forester sprinted off. He did not look behind him, did not worry about his dog, did not stop until he had reached the safety of his truck. You can imagine how we laughed when we heard this campfire tale, giggled until our bellies hurt. I feel sorry for laughing now.

I have shared my friend’s scary account with others around the lake, and in turn have been given several similar stories of suspense involving the ferocious flat-tailed tree-eater. One poor fellow required stitches in his backside. A beaver had blocked his way over a bridge. He left the safety of his vehicle to gently shoo the cute critter from his path. The beaver charged and the man turned and ran. The fleet-footed fur-ball caught him, pinning the man between truck and bridge guard rail as he struggled to open his door. The beaver latched on to the startled victim’s posterior, gnawing on it like it was a poplar tree.

An old rancher friend from the west told me of his own experience. When out riding his horse, repairing fence, he caught site of a beaver far from any pond. Before the cowboy could spit a tobacco plug, the creature had lunged at his mount’s front legs. The beaver put the run on the horse in such an expert fashion, that the cowpoke considered training the agile rodent for cutting cattle.

Now we all have our cottage stories of Castor canadensis – of the damage they cause, the trees they thin, the marsh systems they help create, or simply the sound of their wide tail smacking water on a still summer’s night. What has put me in mind of these violent tales is that today, as I am writing this, it is Canada Day, a day when we salute our country and feel pride for our flag. It is true we often complain that, as national symbols, the Americans have their bald eagle, the Russians their fearsome bear, and the Brits their king of the beasts, the lion. We have our amphibious rodent. Though these buck-toothed engineers may be industrious, hard-working and skilled, they have never been credited as ferocious warriors.

“Well, now you know the rest of the story.”

Cottage Workshop – Building a Squirrel-proof Bird Feeder

Posted on June 26, 2017 by James Ross

I have built the ultimate squirrel-proof bird feeder. I have defeated my arch-nemesis, Chirpy. Finally, in the end, I have won our on-going battle. I am victorious!

I know what you’re thinking. What am I going to do at the cottage all summer if I am no longer battling with my sinister rival? And, how will that rascal Chirpy actually win out again in the final paragraph of this column? Well, obviously you haven’t read the title above. This little narrative isn’t about duking it out with a bushy-tailed rodent, or about fighting with nature. No, it is about the wisdom that I am about to impart to you, the reader, so you too can become the ultimate cottage do-it-yourselfer. Or what I like to call D.I.Y., to save on my word count.

It started with a brilliant idea, one that I stole from a neighbouring cottager. He had several bird feeder stands built judiciously around his grounds, easily visible from the back deck. The feeders sat atop four by four posts dug into the ground, while old stove piping fixed halfway up prevented squirrels from climbing. “We (meaning me) could build that,” states my darling wife. She often says that about intricate building or renovation projects around our cottage, though I usually think it is her devious way of making me look foolish. Here, however, was a project that perhaps I could take on. It looked simple enough. And with a few minor design modifications of my own, I could take ownership of this little project. The Ultimate Cottage Daze Squirrel-Proof Bird Feeder Stand! It kind of has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

So, off I went to the local lumber yard to pick up a twelve foot, four by four post and a handful of wood screws. I had some old metal ducting stored in the shed that I knew would come into use one day. So I dug the post into the ground, tacked on the metal to make it rodent-proof, and built a cross-piece on top from which hung too well-stocked bird feeders. Then I headed indoors to witness Chirpy’s agonized reaction to my wonderful invention.

As I peeked out of the cottage window, I watched Chirpy survey the situation, from all different angles. He looked up with his paws on his hips. He scratched his chin. He nodded his little head. Then he climbed up a nearby maple tree, walked out to the end of a branch, and let his weight droop the spindly limb down to the top of the feeder. I dissembled the post, dug it out of the ground, and moved it far from any tree or shrubbery. I put the stand back together and hid in the cottage once more.

Chirpy returned, and took in the new situation. He paced off three metres from the base of the post, turned, and sprinted up, his momentum taking him past the slippery metal (like a snowmobiler skipping their high-powered machine across an expanse of open water – for whatever reason). I dissembled the unit again and added a cone shaped metal cap. The squirrel repeated the same process and then just used the cap as something to push off of, catapulting himself higher, in a circus-like trapeze manoeuvre, grabbing the base of a feeder before swinging himself aboard.

I dissembled the unit again and added a length of stove pipe. Chirpy climbed up between the stove pipe and the post like a mountain climber scaling a chimney-shaped crevasse. I dissembled the stand for the forty-third time, and closed in the bottom of the piping.

Then I waited, peering out secretively from my window. I waited and watched and waited. I got thirsty while I watched and waited, so I grabbed a beer from the fridge and then returned to watch and wait some more. Chirpy came out and surveyed the situation. He gave it a try, but he slipped backwards and fell to the ground. He tried a couple more times, but failed. Chirpy went off to the trees. I had won – I had finally won!

For the next few days I returned to my secret spying window to marvel at my great invention. I hadn’t seen Chirpy for a week. Hard as it is to believe, I kind of missed him. So I decide to take a stroll along the forest trail telling my wife that I want to find Chirpy and gloat, but when I do see him he ignores me. I can’t help but notice that he is looking a bit thin. And is that a whole chirpy family that he has in his hole-in-the-tree home? Perhaps he has to provide for all of them.

I return to the cottage and dissemble the feeder stand one last time. I strip it of the metal, the stove pipe, and the copper cap. I build a miniature wooden ladder up the side for easier climbing and then fill the feeders with Chirpy’s favourite seed, suet and peanuts. After-all, squirrel watching is just as much fun as watching silly birds. Now, I am angered when I notice that the birds; the sweet chickadees, tiny sparrows, colourful jays and handsome woodpeckers are using Chirpy’s feeder. I run from the cottage screaming and chase them away.

So stay tuned to another season of Cottage Daze, and particularly for my next cottage workshop project, the Ultimate Cottage Daze Bird-Proof Bird Feeder! I have a plan.

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Just like they do in those fancy cottage magazines – read on for the step by step design and building instructions, made easy, for squirrel proofing your bird feeders and annoying your squirrels.

Cottage Workshop – The Ultimate Squirrel Proof Bird Feeder

Materials: one 4×4 twelve foot post, a handful of wood screws, some 6 inch bolts salvaged from the last dock repair, two dock boards left over and stored under the bunkhouse, a three foot length of dented chimney pipe from two years ago when you replaced the old cottage chimney with a new insulated one, a couple pieces of two by four that had previously been used to level the barbecue, a few bent and rusty nails – (for hanging feeders), a spade with a broken handle (that you snuck to the cottage from home when your wife tried to take it to the dump), the new bird feeder you got your wife for Mother’s Day instead of flowers – (which only caused one or two problems), and some bird seed – (which your wife served you for dinner as a result of the previous miscalculation).

The Plans:

Dig post 3 feet into the ground – preferably sitting straight, kind of.
Fasten old chimney about three feet off the ground – paint to taste.
Cap the chimney section with an old metal dome-shaped roof cabbaged from a previous squirrel-proof feeder that cost a lot of money but didn’t work.
Bolt old dock board at top of pole, braced by odd pieces of two by four. Put in a few extra screws to secure, and add a couple of bent nails from which you can hang feeders. Should be in a ‘T’ shape.
Hang feeders and fill with bird seed.
See squirrel on bird feeder, so disassemble entire unit and try again, making minute adjustments to design until you succeed.
Repeat as often as necessary, or until it is the cocktail hour on the dock.

THE MEXICAN MARIGOLD HOTEL

Posted on January 19, 2017 by James Ross

When we left our taxi and walked through the front archway to our beachfront condo at the Costa Dorado in Bucerias, I felt like I had stumbled into some kind of Mexican Marigold Hotel. We were greeted by all sorts of elderly characters; in the pool, lounging bar-side, sitting around tables shaded by umbrellas – all waved a friendly welcome. “Buenas Dias!” Many were Canadians down for a winter break. All were over 65. My young 14 year old daughter scowled my way.

“Where were the youngsters? Where were the boys? Where was the all-you-can-eat buffet?”

Not here, my dear, this is Bucerias, a charming antidote to the hustle and bustle of nearby Puerto Vallarta. Bucerias, meaning “place of divers,” is a small coastal fishing village on Banderas Bay in the state of Nayarit. I love the convenience of a great all-inclusive resort just like the next guy, but I had heard that this quaint village was a haven for travellers seeking a little bit more of an authentic taste of Mexico. I just hadn’t realized that most of these savvy travellers were slower-paced retirees.

Bucerias has an old-fashioned festive feel, particularly around the beachfront open-air market. The centre of town features the ubiquitous Mexican town square complete with gazebo, church, and market. Cars share the cobblestone streets with horses and tourists, and, in the early morning, fishermen set out from the central beach area. It has a wide, uninterrupted, white-sand beach that stretches for miles. Ambitious beach strollers can walk to Nuevo Vallarta in the south and La Cruz in the north.

The village offers a great range of dining experiences, from the higher-end to the more low-key, casual spots that focus on authentic Mexican cuisine. There is an awesome culinary discovery waiting on every corner. We loved the smaller family run establishments like Little Bull or Comida Corrida, where you can bring in your own beer or wine and eat on the outdoor patios.

While its miles of beaches offer the perfect setting to lounge about and do nothing, there are activities worth trying. Thursday evenings are art walk night, when visitors are encouraged to check out a vivid art scene. Galleries along Lazaro Cardenas Street remain open late, serving cocktails and refreshments.

One trip I won’t recommend is a boat trip to the Islas Marietas, that is, unless you enjoy chaos and crowds. Off the coast near Punta Mita, the islands are home to an abundance of birdlife and a place called “Hidden Beach,” which is only accessible by swimming through a 50-foot rock tunnel. Sounds romantic, but you are swimming through the entranceway with a disorganized hoard of thousands of other thrashing and panicking visitors, all wrapped up in orange, key-hole life vests. I felt like a survivor from the Titanic, only the water was warmer. You’ll find that the beach is no longer hidden.Instead, take a tour in the Sierra Madre Mountains to the old colonial silver mining town of San Sebastian, tour a tequila distillery, or venture out to one of the ranches just outside Bucerias for a horseback adventure. To get back on your daughter’s good side, you can arrange a massage for her on the beach, take her to Dolphin Quest in Puerto Vallarta to swim with these amazingly intelligent creatures, or rent a SUP and send her off in search of whales.

I enjoyed nothing better than sitting in the shade of a ‘palapa’ on the beach in the early morning with a cup of coffee, enjoying the sweeping views over Banderas Bay, catching a glimpse of dolphins feeding not far off shore, or the pelicans diving into the surf after fish. In the evening, from the same vantage point but with a margarita or glass of wine, you can enjoy the impressive sunsets that are a daily part of the bay panorama. Bucerías is a coastal gem, a traditional Mexican town filled with Huichol heritage and fronted by miles of splendid beach. The town is a very attractive place to retire from the bustle of it all. The sage visitors staying at the Mexican Marigold point out that it reminds them of what Puerto Vallarta was like 50 years ago. Oh, the wisdom of years!

If You Go:

Bucerias is easy to access, a short taxi ride north of the Puerto Vallarta Airport. No need for a car here, you can walk almost everywhere, and for places a bit farther afield, a trip on a city bus is something to be experienced. The ideal time to plan your vacation is during the dry season, November – April.

To Fetch a Pail of Water

Posted on October 11, 2016 by James Ross

It was snowing when we opened the cottage on the long weekend in May. Now, while it was not exactly snowing when we came to close the place, it was far from warm summer weather. Things were so busy at home, that I grabbed my dad and a couple of dogs to head up to the lake mid-week, driving through the beautiful colours of a spectacular autumn day. We looked forward to this visit. It would be a great bonding time for father and son, and we wondered when, if ever, we had been to the cottage together like this, just the two of us.

It was cold. We awoke the first morning to see our breath. A heavy mist rose from the lake, and the dock was covered by a thick, white frost. We had already dissembled the pump, so I wandered down to get a bucket of water for the breakfast dishes. My dad’s footprints were clearly etched on the frozen pier boards where he had grabbed a pot of water for morning coffee. It made a beautiful photo, the swirling fog, the white frost on the dock and boat, footprints of dad and dogs, and the distant beams of light from a sun trying to poke through to lend a little warmth to the scene.

Our cottage is a little remote, so we tend to close up the cabin like a fortress. Our main intention is to protect the place against intruders, from vandals, but more so from furry trespassers. We bolt heavy wire mesh on all of the windows. Seldom have we had much trouble with the cabin from people. The mice and squirrels have at times left a mess in the interior, as they have enjoyed the run of the place through the cold months. Over time we have learned how to close the place to minimize the damage.

We secured the cabin, packed up any food stuff that remained from our summer visits, put anything that might freeze over winter away in our bunker below frost line, and stowed all the bedding and towels that the mice might find inviting into secure closets. We worked our way through our closing checklist, and by evening had pretty much everything done.

We had a nice steak dinner, and dad and I talked about all the great years we had enjoyed in this place. We reminisced about the adventures and the misadventures, the lessons learned, the fun times and the growing up that we had done here. After dinner, I settled down at the table to work on this narrative, it was my last column of the season, and I was unsure what to write.

“Can’t help you there,” says my dad, and then disappears outside to grab a kettle full of water for cleanup.

I work away, writing down little notes and trying to find some inspiration. I was unaware that while I was agonizing over a storyline for some time, my dad was outside doing his best to supply it.

The two huskies had wandered down with him and watched from the end of the dock as he leaned over to scoop some water. It was dark and the water was smooth and black, it was hard to tell where night air ended and cold lake water began. The dogs watched him tumble into the water and splash around trying to find his footing and to struggle back to dry land. In the movies they would have raced up to fetch me, offered up a bark of danger, a yelp that said, “Put your pen down stupid, the old guy is in trouble!”

When the door of the cabin swung open and he stood there dripping on the stoop, this was the point that seemed to disconcert him the most. (Well, besides the fact that he realized immediately that his exploits would be in the paper in a week). “They just stared down at me,” he complained, “ I’m sure wondering what I was up to. They stood there side by side with their heads cocked to the side and an inquisitive expression on their faces. When I got out, they ran away scared, like I was the creature from the black lagoon.

That made me laugh – he looked a little like that. His sweatshirt was soaked, stretched long and dripping. His hair was in a soggy state of disarray. His shoes squelched as he walked, and he left a long trail of water behind, like swamp ooze. He shivered uncontrollably, but tried to tell me that the water was actually quite beautiful.

“I’m not going for a swim dad.”

“No, it felt surprisingly nice, and I feel clean.”

I think it is great when you feel so good when you should really feel ridiculous – but I don’t tell him, of course. After all, he is my dad. Besides, it kind of scares me. What if he had hit his head and drowned? What would I tell my mom? “Sorry, but I had to leave dad in the lake, he was too water-logged for me to lift.” Would I ever get a lecture. “See,” she would probably tell me. “I knew your lack of enthusiasm for doing the dishes would someday lead to trouble.”

It will be another cottage tale. It will be a story made better over time. Someday I will be closing the place with my son. How special is that? I’ll grab a bucket and head out in the evening for some water. I will pause on the front porch, remembering adventures from days past – then I will slip on a lifejacket and head for the dock.

The Long Weekend – Finally

Posted on May 20, 2016 by James Ross

Though spring was officially here on the 20th of March, we spent the month of April waiting on it. It was dawdling along, slow and teasing; but still it came, measure by measure and blossom by blossom. So sick were many of us with the snow’s reluctance to leave, that I spied relatively sane neighbours waging a battle with the white stuff as April wound down, shovelling what was left of it out onto the warm asphalt of their roadways and drives just to speed it away – laughing hysterically as it turned slowly into puddles. Others found it more prudent and slick to take out their wife’s hairdryer, to attack the frozen stuff with heat, melting it away from their door stoops and walkways.

Spring for me has never been about a date on the calendar, but rather a time when the snow melts away, the trees and plants start to bud, and the grass turns green. It comes when the ice on the lake has magically transformed itself, first into an infinite number of tiny ice capsules, before disappearing all together almost before our eyes. It is a time when passage to our island cottage is possible once again. The geese have come back, honking their way through the skies on their journey north. The song birds return to the feeders, with their lovely morning melodies, and the loons have found their own personal lakes once again. Even my two oldest girls are back from university, adding noise and colour to the home front.

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My favourite robin has returned, sourcing out the most inconvenient place in which to build her nest. I disguise myself with branches and follow her around, foiling her attempts at building a temporary home under my overturned cedar-strip canoe, atop the barbecue or on the captain’s chair of our pontoon boat. Finding such surveillance work exhausting, however, I soon find myself dozing off in a Muskoka chair with binoculars in my lap – until I’m startled awake by a bird landing on my head with sprigs of dead grass in her beak.

I must be dreaming.

Spring is a season of promise and possibility. That is, my wife gets re-energized, and starts bustling around making a “Spring To-Do” list for me in preparation for the opening up of our cottage. I promise to get to the chores very soon, and my wife remains optimistic with that possibility.

Now, we run into our first long weekend of the cottage season, when cottagers return in droves to open up their summer escapes, meandering up the busy highways hauling boats or utility trailers packed high with supplies. They arrive, set out the patio or dock furniture, fire up the barbecues, and work at emptying out their coolers. The towns of Muskoka become bustling hives of activity, lively and vibrant once again.

My middle daughter wonders why the long weekend is falling early this year. “Isn’t it called the May two-four weekend, after-all?” she asks.

To which my oldest and wisest daughter responds, “That’s not for the date, you dummy – that’s because everybody celebrates by buying 2-4’s of beer!”

Oh, what they learn in college. Bless her heart.

Goodbye winter and hello spring … with summer just on the horizon.

Cottage Daze Quiz

The May 2-4 weekend is a celebration of:

a) Beer – fire up the barbecue and break out the Two-Four.

b) Queen Victoria’s birthday.

c) The start of the cottage season.

d) The day my robin builds a nest on my pontoon boat.

e) A spike in gas prices (because of a shortage somewhere).

f) All of the Above.

Did you know …?

Its official name is Victoria Day, celebrating the birth of Queen Victoria (1837-1901). Her birthday, May 24, was declared a holiday in 1845. After Confederation, it was decided by the wise ones running our country that her birthday was to be celebrated on May 24 unless the date fell on a Sunday, in which case it was observed the following day. In 1952, the government, after an important and contentious debate (one can only assume), changed the day once more to the Monday preceding May 25. That is why the May long weekend is from May 21^st to the 23rd this year. But, by all means, open up the cottage, fire up the barbecue and break out the two-four. Grab your Muskoka chair and relax on the dock – with a bevy and a copy of Cottage Daze!