Canadian summers...

“In youth, it was always the place not the people.

Time so changes one’s perspective, for

in old age, it was never the place…”

-anonymous

South Central Ontario, Canada in the summer… there was a time when only God and a special few knew her.

More properly it was the Muskoka (Mus-ko-ka) region of Ontario that had attracted folk by its pastoral scenery and astonishingly beautiful lakes.  There were three that were linked together: Lakes Muskoka, Rosseau (Ross-so) and Joseph.  Ah Joseph, like its biblical name’s sake, this was a lake of richly deep and clear waters, around which in the fall its mantle of hardwood leaves defined the very essence of God’s vivid imagination – a cloak of such festive colors even Joseph himself would have felt some envy.

Before my time…

In the early 1900s my grandfather owned an art supply store in Toronto.  He was looking for a place to deposit the family in the summers while he went to Europe to buy brushes and other items for his inventory.  How he discovered this land, is unknown to me, but find it he did.  He purchased 212 acres (85.7 hectares) of land on the northeastern shores of Lake Joseph.  Lakes Muskoka and Rosseau had been found and occupied with summer hotels and cottagers for many years, but the Northern end of Lake Joe was more difficult to get to and had remained relatively untouched.

Buying the land was one thing, getting there another.  My mother talked about how they would take the train from Toronto to Bala – some 120 miles (193km) – and wind their way to Port Sandfield, a small town at the confluence of Lakes Joseph and Rosseau.  They would then fill a small motor driven ‘putter boat’ and make their way up the 10 or 11 mile (16-17.7km) journey to Stanley Bay where the land lay. 

The original cottage was a log cabin in a clearing around 100 yards (91 meters) or so from the lakeshore.  Twelve of the acres were on the lakeshore, while the back 200 contained a ten acre (4 hectares), beaver inhabited lake and uncharted woods. 

Summers were spent playing in the water and surrounding areas, while working to keep the raccoons and other small animals from raiding the pantry of food.  Every couple of weeks, a supply boat would come to a wharf about a quarter of a mile up the shoreline, where they would purchase supplies, and I understand, an occasional candy bar. 

My era…

By the time I arrived on the planet, the land had been in the family for nearly 37 years.  A family cottage had been built along the shore, in the middle of the 12 acres that kissed the southern shore of Stanley bay.  Family members would reserve time in the summers to take the cottage for a few weeks of campfires, corn roasts, sing-songs, fishing, Sunday church and interaction with whatever creatures of the woods ventured by to see these odd two-legged hairless animals. 

There was no electricity, no indoor plumbing, no telephone, no television…just family, a few board games we all played and our imaginations to fill the seemingly never-ending days that melted into nights.

It was during these years when family members began branching out to build their own cottages along the quarter mile (402m) shoreline.  One of my uncles had purchased the beach at the end of the bay, so it could be argued the end and entire southeastern shoreline of the bay was in family possession.

My mother was assigned a section of land, and my father began, what would become better than a decade’s odyssey of building our family cottage.  As a carpenter, my dad was a pretty good minister.  To say he had building skill, would be the grossest of overstatements.  While he served that great carpenter from Bethlehem and Nazareth, his enthusiasm exceeded his skill by a large margin.  Dad was a minister of the Gospel.  The ‘cottages’ he built for a living were “…not made with hands.”  Yet he was undeterred.

Every summer, he would borrow a little money, purchase small amounts of building materials and spend the month of August building our cottage.  Finally, on a day of celebration and great excitement we moved from the family cottage into our very own place along the bay.  There would be no more haggling for cottage time…we could be there whenever we wanted.

Thirty days a year…

Our holiday was the month of August, and we always had a lot of people visit.  Rarely a day or two went by where someone would not show up from somewhere.  It was truly ‘mi casa – es su casa’ (my home is your home).  If we didn’t have more than 50 souls visit during that month, my mother felt she had done something wrong.

Food, from the general store, was delivered a couple of times a week.  I would provide fresh fish for breakfast whenever I was lucky enough to catch some.

The family routine was pretty well set.  The evenings were generally social gatherings in the living room. We played games, told stories, laughed at silly jokes and…and…and we were circled in a love and fellowship that seemed so normal. I didn’t realize they were set in motion deliberately by parents who understood the importance community and hospitality.  We learned these life skills as naturally as young children learn a foreign language.

Nights and days…

Each night dad would lay the next morning’s firewood. Both he and mum were early risers, and as dad lit the morning fire, mother would be in the kitchen singing quietly to herself while she got breakfast ready.  She was the ultimate optimist; if dealt a poor hand, she would make something out of it. 

A lot of people from many different cultures, nations and belief systems came to the Dreisinger cottage over the years.  We were encouraged to bring our friends or invite acquaintances  - who, in the end, could not fail to become a friend.  It was a laboratory of hospitality that prepared us for ways in life we could never imagine.

Cottages are great, but mothers…

One of my favorite stories, and one my friend John has reminded me of from time to time involves some fellas from Africa visiting for a few days.  He brought them to the cottage, and they only had a couple of days to be with  us..  I had pumped up the idea of going out on the lake and doing some fishing.  The smaller lake on the property, in addition to having beaver, also had lots of frogs that could be used for fishing bait.  We spent a day catching frogs and digging for worms for the appointed day.  I could hardly wait! 

The next morning, a huge thunderstorm unexpectedly appeared, meaning we weren’t going to be doing anything but staying in the cottage, with me sulking.  I was particularly upset as I crossed the living room toward the kitchen ready to complain my heart out to mother.   As I got near the door, I heard her quietly singing to herself as she began getting breakfast ready for the small herd that was visiting.  This was her custom in the mornings.  This particular morning it was one of her favorite hymns: JL Hall’s “When morning gilds the skies.”

The tune is gently melodic, and the words of the first verse begin like this:

“When morning gilds the skies

my heart awakening cries:

May Jesus Christ be praised!

Alike at work and prayer,

to Jesus I repair:

May Jesus Christ be praised!”

The skies were darkened with clouds, rain and thunder and my mother was singing about the sun coming to the morning sky.  My heart was stung by the contrast between my darkened mood and her skill for keeping her disposition elevated.  When I entered the kitchen, she could feel my frustration.  She just smiled, said she loved me, and asked if I would begin setting the table.  She had a skill set that it would take me decades to learn, and in all honesty have not fully mastered.

As I have gotten older and benefited from the lessons of my youth, I have read lots of life enhancing things.  The scriptures have been a place of comfort for me…I enjoy a little history and philosophy for reinforcement…I embrace the laboratory of life, where the next moment is sometimes so unexpected as to take my breath away.  BUT if I really want to settle my heart, and find that place of quiet strength, I close my eyes and see my mother standing in front of the sink at the cottage gently singing to herself… "When morning gilds the skies…"

- ted