Robby’s family cottage is closed for the winter. It truly is a cottage and not a house– the only way to winterize it would be to build a building around it and enclose it. This weekend we shivered our way through the mornings with bodies stiffened from trying to keep in heat all night. Jack was bundled in his little bed with a nest of blankets and thick jammies and socks… and the dog was grateful for his winter coat that’s been coming in lately.
Our movements in the cold semi-circle away from the fireplace and kerosene heater are clumsy and hurried. It’s a constant game to read the thermometer that tells both the inside and outside temperatures. Sometimes it makes it worse. By mid-afternoon it’s almost pleasant. Especially outside. In the sun. But the mornings and evenings are something else. My mother-in-law has been packing up the last load for home all week. When the temperatures dropped she took to her electric sheets.
I lived and slept in the wool socks my Auntie made me. And two layers of flannel pajammas. As Robby rightfully pointed out, “We’d suck at being pioneers.”
Yes we would.
During the day we took a trek outside. Jack rode in style on Robby’s back in the backpack with my long fingerless mitts on his arms and hands. My Mom brought him a little navy hat that ties under his chin and his little red cheeks under the hat enchanted us. There is a great path through the woods that, at this time of year, is crunchy with leaves and sticks. Our friend, Irene, lives off the path and we were treated to hot mugs of tea in her sunny front room. (Irene’s offers of tea are never, ever refused– always her tea is perfectly brewed. She always has milk for it, too.) Jack explored the sunbeams that came in the large window that looks out on the lake. It’s a completely different view than we are used to because her house is on the lake’s level and our cottage is on top of a hill overlooking it.
Last night we were invited to have supper with the Tuthills at their insulated haven of warmth and hospitality. I love fall at The Lake– the cottages and cabins and houses glow and spill out light into the cold black night in a fierce way. In the summer it’s the noise that spills out from the cottages along our road– walking the pup at a late hour you are aware of screen doors slamming and fireworks popping and card games turning raucous… but in the fall you are aware of the lights first. Noise doesn’t penetrate the cold in the same way the light seems to.
I’ve sung the praises of the Tuthills before. And that their table is the nicest one to at which to linger. Philbin pup is as welcomed and hailed as Jack baby. Dorrit’s bowls and platters always yield some perfect marriage of seasoning and David works the grill with roasts and birds that come to the table dripping with flavor and juice yet.
Padre sighed and stood when he remembered that we needed to stoke the fires back at the cottage or we’d have a miserable night. We bundled Jack into Meggie-the-dog’s duvat and chattered into the still cold. The moon last night was magnificent– a perfect Man-In-The-Moon yellow crescent hung low, low over the quiet lake. Jack’s warm little body and Philbin’s wiggling smaller body kept me warm on the way home but the first true cold, like this weekend’s, is a mean one.
For half the year the Lake is off limits to us– which makes the cottage all the more magical when May brings warmer temperatures again. Still, I’m glad to be in stout brick walls tonight with the furnace on and a throw on my lap. I’ll miss Irene’s tea and the Tuthill’s table though.
