A few years ago in Cottage Life, author Tamsen Tillson wrote about her father: “He alone knew the mysteries of the pump and the workshop. He understood things like septic tanks and circuit breakers and grey water.”It was a revealing statement because, if only Dad knows how things work at the cottage, what are the rest of us going to do when those things go wrong?
Call Dad, of course.
If cottage moms are the nurturers, cottage dads are the conquerers. As mothers, we make sure there is enough food, toilet paper, and clean bedding and towels on hand for a weekend at the cottage. Fathers make it all magically fit in the trunk of the car.
Fathers are the builders and fixers. Some are the ultimate putterers – they always have a job on the go whether or not there are any jobs that need doing. Others are supervisors – there is always lots to do on their list and they’ll happily give everyone an assignment, then watch closely to make sure it’s done right.
Eventually, if we listen carefully, we learn from our fathers. In the great tradition of cottage succession, the small details that are important to them also become important to us. But more than simply learning what to do to keep the place going (how much oil do you pour into the tank of that cranky old 40 hp again?), we too become obsessed with doing things a certain way because that’s the way our fathers did it.
Maybe we think that if we don’t change anything, everything will stay the same. The lake will still be pristine. The land will always include a secretive forest to play in. The cottage will be a place of fun and games and good times – the best times. If we can somehow preserve the thing our fathers taught us to cherish, through hard work and, sometimes, sheer determination, we might preserve the larger fabric of cottage life – the traditional values of simplicity, self-sufficiency, and the recognition of the cottage as a place apart.
I was reminded of the importance of our fathers’ legacy by a coincidental series of letters I received recently from readers. Though they are unrelated, the writers all felt compelled to share the powerful connection to the cottage they have through their fathers. Along with collections of old workclothes, reclaimed nails and screws, annual opening and closing rituals, and bad jokes, their fathers instilled in them a deep love of the cottaging tradition, and a feeling that Dad was invincible.
“When I was a boy,” writes Tim Tarrant of Le Grou Lake, near Port Loring, Ont., “it seemed like my father could navigate his way through the twists and dips of that dusty cottage road with his eyes closed. I was always in awe…that over such a great distance, without any trouble at all, he could find our secret place buried deep in the northern forest every time.”
Sandra Baird, of Tyson Lake near Killarney, calls her father, John DeBoer, “the rock that holds our family together” – no small feat, one imagines, at a cottage shared by six children and 20 grandchildren.
Sixteen-year-old Jenna Piirto’s tribute to her father, Victor, celebrated his patience: “Over the years, he taught me to never give up and to keep trying. It’s like those days when he came back with no fish, and yet he kept trying.”
But as vulnerable as the cottage is to change, so is Dad. As our fathers get older, we are reminded of their mortality and the fragility of all we hold dear in our cottage lives. “Landscapes are forever changing,” writes Tim Tarrant, referring to the modernization of the dusty cottage road his father knew so well. He could as easily be referring to the shifting mantle of responsibility for the cottages themselves.
For me, the “father letters” are a breath of fresh air when the wider world seems to have gone crazy, a glimpse of lives lived with grace and authenticity.
Thanks for writing.
Editor’s Note, Cottage Life, October 2003
Share and Enjoy:
These icons link to social bookmarking sites where readers can share and discover new web pages.
Recent Comments