An update from the cabin.
Oct. 15th, 2006 12:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusA few of you know my dad does a regular series of journal pieces about his time up at his summer cabin in Ontario. I think he should turn these into a book because they're peaceful and you can almost hear his soft, dry baritone mocking himself and taking an amused look at human foibles.
He doesn't think it'll sell and has a children's book instead. I think he's wrong, but eventually he'll listen to me, get a column in some vacationer's magazine, and find he makes a mint from stories that he thinks only amuse himself.
Here's the first of this year's journal entries:
June 18 2006.
We’re late this year.
By the time we’d arrived the loons had forgotten whose island this is (or have we?) and tried to run us off. Like two ships of war they advanced in formation down the little cove between the islands, yodeling and flapping their wings, and jabbing their beaks at us. Not a nice welcome. Nor was the wind any happier to see us. It had blown an old birch down across our path from the outer dock. Long broken pine boughs fortified the steps to the door. Sticks were scattered everywhere and sudden gusts made the bushes shudder and filled the air with stinging little bits. Even the cabin fought our arrival. The padlock took forever to give up its grip and the doors swelled tight against their jambs so we had to kick our way in.
The cabin is chilly inside, but we’re out of the wind. It’s ghostly in here, a whiff of rotting wood or something. Storm covers block the light and all the furniture is piled in the center of the room under a gloomy blue tarp. Shelves are empty. My fishing hat hangs on the hook where I left it seven months ago. All the surfaces have a fine black grit that must have sifted down from between the roof boards, or through the cracks in the ship-lap, and up between the floor boards last winter. In front of the refrigerator lie the remains of a dead mouse. Newspapers and plastic sheets are taped over things to keep them from the dust. There’s nowhere to sit. And nothing to do except get busy. There’s water to turn on, shades to lift, light to let in. There’s a fire to build to warm this trembling shack, and make it a cabin again.
The first day is always an exercise in damage control. By the orange pool of rust on top of the old stove I see that last summer’s patch of the roof didn’t hold and more extensive measures are called for this year. Or I could just study up on steel and cast iron stove repair. I wonder which is harder, roofing or metal patching? At least I could patch the stove myself. I don’t go up on roofs anymore, I’m not allowed. “You can’t even walk right on level ground with those wobbly arthritic ankles, what makes you think you can walk on a 12/12 pitch that’s all mossy underfoot?” Hard to argue with that one, besides, any excuse… The question now is do I call Ray? Ray fixed it last year. Try again? I have a feeling there will be more to this story before summer’s over.
Have you ever noticed how things slowly wear out over time and then make it a race to oblivion at the end? Two years ago the boat was looking kinda worn, suddenly it’s in a state of utter decay. There’s no longer a back to the driver’s seat. The wooden back-rest has rotted out inside the cracked and chaulky naugahyde cover. The screws have pulled out and it’s upright no more. And the decks are a mess. The carpet is frayed and split and curls back upon itself. Yes, carpet. Mine is what they call a bass boat, and for reasons known only to the good ‘ole boys down in Flippin, Arkensas, every surface of a bass boat is sheathed in carpeting. The decks, the hatches, floors, everything except the steering wheel and the motor have carpeting glued all over them. A touch of elegance, I guess. And that’s fine for the hawg hunters who fish on the weekend then spend the rest of the week in the garage polishing their fifty thousand dollar investment.
My boat, which I bought used for a lot less, used to gleam like theirs but eighteen years of continuous exposure tethered in the local discount marina have taken their toll. The gold metal flake finish is now a powdery beige, the hull has dock tattoos, and like I said, the carpet looks like it just came from the land fill it’s headed for. The mechanicals appear to be just slightly behind the cosmetics of this once proud craft. This year there will be an engine overhaul. I’ve already bought new batteries, and the wiring and running lights need to be restored. It’s good to have running lights. You never know when you’ll stay past sunset somewhere, and it gets real creepy out on the lake in the dark waving a flashlight around in the hope that the stoned and boozy night runners with the booming stereos will go around and not through you. And this boat needs a floor. As the floor carpet rots away it seems to be taking bits of patching material with it. The original owner had purchased the hull from Ranger, the Mercedes-Benz of bass boats, intending to steal the design so he could manufacture and sell a less expensive Canadian version. They had dismantled the hull and taken their molds and patterns off all its parts then reassembled it. I suspect they may have missed something in the reassembly stage because there seems to be an awful lot of filler goo that is now breaking up like old crockery.
Speaking of old crockery, here’s my plan: At least, this is my plan until I look into the cost of teak. You know how good a teakwood deck looks, how smooth and warm the satiny wood feels beneath your feet? Well, since I need a new floor anyway I’ve been thinking why not build a kind of decking using the old floor as a kind of sub-floor. I’ve got all summer to do it, I could cut and dry fit it all, piece by piece, and then fasten it down with marine quality screws. There’d be no more carpet to get all soft and mossy. Then I’d redo the frayed parts of the old carpet, which doesn’t get all mossy, and I’d have a handsome new boat. Oh yeah, I’d get a brand new used seat to replace the old rotted one. Sound like a plan?
I should go on record here as saying Annie thinks it’s a terrible idea and would rather have me turn the boat over to someone who does this sort of thing and just build a new floor out of plywood. She can be no fun at all sometimes. She’s also right on occasion, but that’s beside the point. Wouldn’t a teak deck look swell?
It’s been a quiet, sweaty weekend, the weather turned good and we got it all done. The loons are off our case and the wind’s settled down. The gift of this beautiful day was a rosy warm evening and a lovely meal. The meals we make up at Rebel are the stepping-stones of time. Every weekend we celebrate life with a special meal. Grilling season has begun and I launched with some red peppers and wild venison chops. I like grilling over a hot fire. The chops make a hiss when you drop them on the grill and the fat melts into the coals and makes a gusher of flame and smoke. The idea is to keep them moving about the grill into and out of the hot spots so as not to char any one too much. You have to ignore the heat until you can’t any more and you pull your hand out of the smoke and blow on it, or spill some beer over it if it’s really hot. Meanwhile, the peppers blacken and are tossed into some olive oil to settle and wait for the chops. Annie makes a big tabouleh salad and there’s a whole bottle of a decent Syrah just for the two of us.
They started summer without us, but we’ll catch up.
As for home and school: At the moment this Sanskrit looks like Greek to me, but I think if I take it slow and repeat, repeat, repeat, it'll come together.
And speaking of which, a classmate of mine is taking Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit. All at the same time.
Color me impressed.
He doesn't think it'll sell and has a children's book instead. I think he's wrong, but eventually he'll listen to me, get a column in some vacationer's magazine, and find he makes a mint from stories that he thinks only amuse himself.
Here's the first of this year's journal entries:
June 18 2006.
We’re late this year.
By the time we’d arrived the loons had forgotten whose island this is (or have we?) and tried to run us off. Like two ships of war they advanced in formation down the little cove between the islands, yodeling and flapping their wings, and jabbing their beaks at us. Not a nice welcome. Nor was the wind any happier to see us. It had blown an old birch down across our path from the outer dock. Long broken pine boughs fortified the steps to the door. Sticks were scattered everywhere and sudden gusts made the bushes shudder and filled the air with stinging little bits. Even the cabin fought our arrival. The padlock took forever to give up its grip and the doors swelled tight against their jambs so we had to kick our way in.
The cabin is chilly inside, but we’re out of the wind. It’s ghostly in here, a whiff of rotting wood or something. Storm covers block the light and all the furniture is piled in the center of the room under a gloomy blue tarp. Shelves are empty. My fishing hat hangs on the hook where I left it seven months ago. All the surfaces have a fine black grit that must have sifted down from between the roof boards, or through the cracks in the ship-lap, and up between the floor boards last winter. In front of the refrigerator lie the remains of a dead mouse. Newspapers and plastic sheets are taped over things to keep them from the dust. There’s nowhere to sit. And nothing to do except get busy. There’s water to turn on, shades to lift, light to let in. There’s a fire to build to warm this trembling shack, and make it a cabin again.
The first day is always an exercise in damage control. By the orange pool of rust on top of the old stove I see that last summer’s patch of the roof didn’t hold and more extensive measures are called for this year. Or I could just study up on steel and cast iron stove repair. I wonder which is harder, roofing or metal patching? At least I could patch the stove myself. I don’t go up on roofs anymore, I’m not allowed. “You can’t even walk right on level ground with those wobbly arthritic ankles, what makes you think you can walk on a 12/12 pitch that’s all mossy underfoot?” Hard to argue with that one, besides, any excuse… The question now is do I call Ray? Ray fixed it last year. Try again? I have a feeling there will be more to this story before summer’s over.
Have you ever noticed how things slowly wear out over time and then make it a race to oblivion at the end? Two years ago the boat was looking kinda worn, suddenly it’s in a state of utter decay. There’s no longer a back to the driver’s seat. The wooden back-rest has rotted out inside the cracked and chaulky naugahyde cover. The screws have pulled out and it’s upright no more. And the decks are a mess. The carpet is frayed and split and curls back upon itself. Yes, carpet. Mine is what they call a bass boat, and for reasons known only to the good ‘ole boys down in Flippin, Arkensas, every surface of a bass boat is sheathed in carpeting. The decks, the hatches, floors, everything except the steering wheel and the motor have carpeting glued all over them. A touch of elegance, I guess. And that’s fine for the hawg hunters who fish on the weekend then spend the rest of the week in the garage polishing their fifty thousand dollar investment.
My boat, which I bought used for a lot less, used to gleam like theirs but eighteen years of continuous exposure tethered in the local discount marina have taken their toll. The gold metal flake finish is now a powdery beige, the hull has dock tattoos, and like I said, the carpet looks like it just came from the land fill it’s headed for. The mechanicals appear to be just slightly behind the cosmetics of this once proud craft. This year there will be an engine overhaul. I’ve already bought new batteries, and the wiring and running lights need to be restored. It’s good to have running lights. You never know when you’ll stay past sunset somewhere, and it gets real creepy out on the lake in the dark waving a flashlight around in the hope that the stoned and boozy night runners with the booming stereos will go around and not through you. And this boat needs a floor. As the floor carpet rots away it seems to be taking bits of patching material with it. The original owner had purchased the hull from Ranger, the Mercedes-Benz of bass boats, intending to steal the design so he could manufacture and sell a less expensive Canadian version. They had dismantled the hull and taken their molds and patterns off all its parts then reassembled it. I suspect they may have missed something in the reassembly stage because there seems to be an awful lot of filler goo that is now breaking up like old crockery.
Speaking of old crockery, here’s my plan: At least, this is my plan until I look into the cost of teak. You know how good a teakwood deck looks, how smooth and warm the satiny wood feels beneath your feet? Well, since I need a new floor anyway I’ve been thinking why not build a kind of decking using the old floor as a kind of sub-floor. I’ve got all summer to do it, I could cut and dry fit it all, piece by piece, and then fasten it down with marine quality screws. There’d be no more carpet to get all soft and mossy. Then I’d redo the frayed parts of the old carpet, which doesn’t get all mossy, and I’d have a handsome new boat. Oh yeah, I’d get a brand new used seat to replace the old rotted one. Sound like a plan?
I should go on record here as saying Annie thinks it’s a terrible idea and would rather have me turn the boat over to someone who does this sort of thing and just build a new floor out of plywood. She can be no fun at all sometimes. She’s also right on occasion, but that’s beside the point. Wouldn’t a teak deck look swell?
It’s been a quiet, sweaty weekend, the weather turned good and we got it all done. The loons are off our case and the wind’s settled down. The gift of this beautiful day was a rosy warm evening and a lovely meal. The meals we make up at Rebel are the stepping-stones of time. Every weekend we celebrate life with a special meal. Grilling season has begun and I launched with some red peppers and wild venison chops. I like grilling over a hot fire. The chops make a hiss when you drop them on the grill and the fat melts into the coals and makes a gusher of flame and smoke. The idea is to keep them moving about the grill into and out of the hot spots so as not to char any one too much. You have to ignore the heat until you can’t any more and you pull your hand out of the smoke and blow on it, or spill some beer over it if it’s really hot. Meanwhile, the peppers blacken and are tossed into some olive oil to settle and wait for the chops. Annie makes a big tabouleh salad and there’s a whole bottle of a decent Syrah just for the two of us.
They started summer without us, but we’ll catch up.
As for home and school: At the moment this Sanskrit looks like Greek to me, but I think if I take it slow and repeat, repeat, repeat, it'll come together.
And speaking of which, a classmate of mine is taking Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit. All at the same time.
Color me impressed.
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no subject
Date: 2006-10-15 02:08 am (UTC)He's skeptical, of course.
Icarus