The Dog Days of Summer at the Cottage

I'm getting myself organized to leave for the cottage on Monday. I always go through an "I don't want to leave" phase. I really like my garden and home in Ptb. I don't need to get away from the city stress. My place in Ptb is not at all stressful. In fact, it's just like the country here. Once I get to the cottage, I need about two days to acclimatize to the quiet and new surroundings before I start wondering why I don't live there all the time. By the time I need to return, I'm very sad about leaving the lake and my life there.

This scenario repeats year after year and has done so for 42 years. In the last ten years, there have been many upgrades to make my life easier. I was really good at living simply in very rustic surroundings but I've had more challenges since my stroke. Things have been added like outdoor lighting, raised and leveled paths outdoors and new flooring indoors plus a new sink, a shower, a microwave all to facilitate my mobility, make things easier, and improve safety. I'm very glad I can still get there to enjoy the wildness of it all.

I hope everything goes smoothly and I don't end up with a broken foot, poison ivy, hives and the myriad small problems that have afflicted me in past years. Willy is going with me and I hope that all his adventures will be positive ones. Once we come back the summer will be pretty much a wrap. The birds will be flocking to prepare for migration and the garden will be tired, overgrown, and blousey, my most unfavourite time in the garden.

I bought new paints, brushes and big sheets of water colour paper. I'm going to try something new this year to break away from the tight control of my usual medium. There is no internet so I'll see you all at the end of August when I get back. Be well and take good care of yourselves while I'm away.

From Herons to Poutine - It's Home

Maya is back in the city after almost two weeks at the cottage. Or as we say in Quebec, the camp. She went with Glenn and the three boys (cats) and I'm told a good time was had by all.

It is a very basic camp on a private, small lake with only one other camp around the point and out of sight. I have owned it since 1968 and prior to that I lived on a farm 15 minutes away. It is a very unique place and completely irreplaceable in this day and age. We are close to all amenities but so secluded that it seems like wilderness.

Over the last 42 years, very little has changed because we fall between the tourist and cottage areas of Montebello and Lachute. The people here are real, they come from generations of farmers and loggers. We are also protected from the outside world because our lake is one of a chain of private lakes up our mountain road. Each landowner on the four lakes shares the same wish, privacy and very minimal disturbance of the natural order. Hence we still hear wolves in the fall, Whippoorwills in the spring, loons and owls all summer, and otters, beaver and muskrats share our water. Deer and Moose wander our woods and there are signs of bear. It has become clear to me over the years, that private ownership, leaving a small environmental footprint, is a superior way of protecting nature, than governments. Governments change and so too their commitment to protection and heritage. Whereas, we are families that pass our values on with the land, to succeeding generations.

Maya is my succeeding generation. She has such a close connection to the land the cottage that I really think it would be very sad if she couldn't make more use of the place. But she needs to be there to discover what she is missing. The longer we remain away the more tenuous the connection becomes. We forget the people and places that matter the most, and we forget our roots.

That is both a blessing and a tragedy for the human race. The blessing of forgetting accounts for our adaptability and survival. We can adapt to almost anything. The tragedy of forgetting is the loss of our heritage and our centre. Throughout the ages we have learned that we forget our heritage at our peril. We loose touch with our values because we have lost or destroyed what is essential to a sustainable environment. Then we have no choice but to adapt to a "brave new world". The end result is something like the Gulf Oil Spill or Bhopal, or the Exxon Valdez - environmental risk-taking and banditry and ultimately the destruction of our planet. No other species fouls its own nest as we do.

I hung on to the cottage, through good times and bad (it wasn't always easy), to ensure that we never loose sight of ourselves. I deliberately kept it basic because living simply, without the distractions of "modern" society, not only is cheaper, but teaches us to enjoy what is. Making do with our own intellect and skills has built confidence and restored harmony in us both. Living within the rhythms of nature has nurtured our deep respect for nature. It has kept me in balance from a sometimes crazy life in Montreal to New York, and Toronto to Peterborough. It always reminded me that there was more to life than career, money and blind ambition. I learned I could do great things in sincere and simple ways. It kept me spiritually honest.

This little space in the universe is my legacy and it's my deepest wish that Maya can continue to derive sustenance from our rare and precious cottage.

I may be wrong, but please hear me out.

It came up again in conversation with my daughter. It was about where she could go to graduate school and each time it arises I stiffen and a cold hand squeezes my heart. Today the challenge was, "you seem to want me to stay within a 200 mile radius until you die". I replied, that it would be nice and heard back "that's rather limiting don't you think?" The subject was dropped.
What was unspoken was "you could live for twenty more years."

What is wrong with me? Why does the idea of her going far away scare me so? I gave her the wings to fly and encouraged her to use them. She was encouraged to go to Manitoba and to the Yukon. I'm quite disgusted with myself. What has changed? Is aging the culprit?

I'm 70 now and a PhD is a four year commitment. I'll be 75 by the time she completes it. What is my expectation for a quality life at 75? Possibly good, but realistically, not so much. I'm on life's downward slope and can't slow the decent. Maya is all I've got in this world and everything I've built and created and saved will pass to her. I have carried the ball all these years to give her a leg up in this world. I have put her first for so long, that I feel selfish when I worry about myself. I look for some sign that she gets it but how can she understand?

Maya is adamant about keeping the cottage but has not assumed much of the physical and financial burden. I'm running out of steam and cannot reasonably be expected to carry the load while she is away for another five years. It's my dearest wish to pass the cottage on to her because if we let it go, she will never find such a place again. It is irreplaceable.

Glenn is now a factor in her decisions and that is as it should be. What I keep hoping for, is the compromise that also includes me. I have an absolute dread of becoming ill and not having an advocate nearby that will fight for me and take care of my best interests. It's not the dying I fear, but dying alone because she is too far away to make it back in time. I'm afraid of ending up in a nursing home without visitors, and in my most negative moments I can see myself on the floor of my house for days before anyone notices I'm missing. Those are the darkest thoughts that grab hold of me when Maya talks about going away to Edmonton or Halifax or England.

I work at staying well and keeping involved and engaged in life, because I refuse to become a burden. I'm usually a positive person and I've tried hard to keep her free her from guilt, but now I need her to know my concerns. I want to be considered in her decisions and I need my reality acknowledged. She has to know that the choices she makes affect others, and face her decisions with mature awareness.

We need to sit down and talk about this without reservation or defensiveness. I need to trust her and she needs to make decisions today that she can live with tomorrow. There are no easy choices in an adult's life.

Friends but hold the tissues.

One of my favourite reads at night is Oma's blog Gone to the Dogs (link below). This is by a very good friend from long ago when we were in high school. Our lives took very different twists and turns causing a long separation. We would hear snatches of news about each other from a mutual friend Pat.

Pat was very keen to get Barb (Oma) and I back in touch but I was very resistant to the idea. So much time had passed and I had very little nostalgia for my high school days, I was sure revisiting Barb would be a mistake. Pat didn't push. The reunion probably wouldn't have happened had Pat not become gravely ill with cancer last year. Barb and I decided independently to go to England to see our friend. Our visits overlapped and within two days we knew that we couldn't lose touch again. We believed that Pat was dying and went to her. We talked and talked and remembered why we had liked each other back all those years.

Barbara the girl was extremely pretty, petite and vivacious. She was everything I wanted to be but wasn't. I was tall (1950s not so good for tall women), extremely slim, and not at all vivacious. I was not unattractive, but unable to see that. I had good legs that reached up forever and was blessed with a quirky sense of humour. Boys liked me, but they loved Barb. I wasn't jealous exactly, I felt gangly beside her.

She was very bright and shared my passion for horses. We used to hitch hike to Oka from Pte. Claire to ride at a stable there. Then we would hitch a ride back home again. I told my parents that Barb's father drove us because I was forbidden to hitch hike. I suspect she told her father a similar lie. It was a different era and hitching rides was relatively safe then.

Our friendship was not terribly deep. We were not confidants. She lived with her father and Oma which was different. Most families had two parents. I had no idea that she was unhappy at home or that her past was touched by loss and sadness. She had no concept of the problems in my home, my mom's bipolar disorder was peaking then. We sought each other out for distraction from our problems, not to talk about them. We saved our deeper thoughts and discussions for Pat and another mutual friend Peter. They kept our secrets so Barb and I never knew about each other. In our final year at John Rennie High, Barb dropped out and to my utter amazement married someone who wasn't in our school. I heard she was pregnant but because stuff was pretty intense in my home I let go of the friendship.

Then I went to university, Pat went to teachers' college and we met and married our respective husbands. Pat stayed in touch with Barb and so did Peter but my life was completely out of Pte. Claire by then. My father died in my last year at school, followed by my mother and Peter all within 22 months. It was a terrible time of loss. Pat moved to England so there really was nobody to connect me to Barbara.

Forty years passed filled with divorce, relocation to New York, remarriage a baby and another world. I wasn't even close to Pat then because when I visited her and Tom in London, after my mother's death, Tom made moves on me. When I rejected him he fomented unpleasantness between Pat and me to get even. I left believing it was over, but with time our friendship revived. We had shed our husbands but resumed our bond. That was when Pat occasionally mentioned Barb.

I learned that she too had been through a lot, had gone back to school with two children and was doing interesting work in the Third World. It is extraordinary that we three friends all ended up single mothers raising our children with lots of imagination and limited means. What strong women we were and what survivors. So finally Barb and I met again and Pat was the catalyst. I'm delighted to report that Pat did not die and has completed treatment. Though not in remission quite yet, she is feeling much better. Barb is still interesting, doing folk art and teaching. I'm going to visit her in August and looking forward to it. As for me, you can follow my life here, on Facebook and Live Journal.

This would make a great Chick Flick possibly starring Bette Midler, Cher and Diane Keaton. It's good for at least two boxes of tissues once Hollywood gets through with it.

Letter to Barb about Bimbos

Hi again,

Your description of Micheline is priceless. Change the names and put it in your blog. If you're afraid people will recognize them, publish for friends only. I laughed and laughed. Oh do I know the scenario well. So many intelligent male friends have gone down the bimbo road. It's inexplicable isn't it? It's some tawdry wish fulfillment like driving a BMW sports car, and taking up sky diving. Somehow, this enactment of the youthful cliche makes men feel they have still got "it". Go figure.

I had a three year affair with a man who had married a beautician. I was the other woman he escaped to when he wanted some class and a mind with his body. So bizarre. More recently, my first boyfriend hunted me up while his wife was dying of cancer. He apparently needed the fantasy of me (his first love) to keep him strong during that long protracted and fearful illness. I listened, provided strength, accepted the ups and downs of his mood swings and understood his fear of losing her. Our emails were daily.

He came to visit after his wife died, and was received by the 69 year old Claire. The real, today me was his age and far removed from his memory of the 15 year old he drew strength from and once loved. It is now a year later, and I rarely hear from him as he is moving on with his life. He lives an hour and a half away, but when, for a whole month, he couldn't make it to my exhibition, I knew that he was not really interested in knowing me. It's sad, because we were such good friends as kids and some potential existed to be good friends again. He is probably out there searching for his Micheline as we speak.

I've noticed something else lately. Men are not very interested in what I might have to say. When I was a young and foxy woman, I attracted men like flies. At cocktail parties they would gather around me but talk to each other. If I mistakenly injected my ideas or observations into the conversation their eyes would glaze over. It took a long time for me to realize that my role was to stand there and admire their ideas, not have my own. In middle age, as a career woman, I was listened to but generally viewed as a threat and ball-breaker when I had ideas before my male colleagues. Now finally, I'm no longer eye candy nor am I a threat. I'm an old woman who doesn't even know enough to be sweet. So generally, the men's eyes glaze over again when I speak. Only the young men find me interesting or knowledgeable.

No wonder I don't generally like men in my peer group. All my life, they never let me be me. Besides, they are truly unattractive. I think cougars are women's revenge for all the bimbo Michelines we've had to endure.

I hope that we both continue to accept the things we cannot change.

Thanks for the laugh.

Your friend.

A bit crazy, maybe?

Early June brings a complete colour change in my garden. The palette has moved from pastel to primary colour. It starts with the poppies. They raise the crimson flag. In about a week's time all the early Bee-balm is blooming with intense red and interspersed with the yellows - Potentilla, day lillies and yarrow are getting ready to burst forth in a sunny blaze. I finally got it right and have the succession of blooming times happening.

Gardening is like painting but a whole lot slower. When you get it wrong you have to wait a year to see if you fixed it. That is the challenge. Gardeners are life's greatest optimists. We keep trying and believing that things will work out next time. That means we believe time is on our side, the weather will cooperate, the insect and animal world will be in check and the balance between our efforts and nature's forces will be in harmony etc. It rarely happens that way but when it fails we step back, survey the mess and say "I'll move this, transplant that, and add something new, so that next year it will be perfect. There is no "perfect" but we choose not to recognize that.

Gardeners are indeed optimists or just maybe a bit crazy!?

Oriental Royalty - Their Perfect Moment

I took photos yesterday before it rained. Poppies are perfect for such a short time, I was afraid the rain would batter them. So here are some of my beauties. Few flowers are as dazzling as Oriental Poppies. In a certain light they glow like stained glass. They come up early each summer, demand little and offer me about a week of breathtaking beauty. Then they drop their soft red petals and all that is left is a dark brown seed pod sticking out of a mass of hairy leaves. Later the leaves brown and become quite unattractive taking up space. I never move them (they hate to be moved) but attempt to disguise the unsightly bunches of leaves with a foreground of annuals. I must respect these exotic queens of my garden because they honour me with their brief show of perfection.

The garden and other summer favourites like bird watching and art puttering take up so much of my time. Forgive my entry deficit. More will come later.