The Cottage

The Cottage
By Barbara Lowry

In the stillness you could hear the fog horn way off in the distance alerting the large ships on the big lake to where the harbor was. It was warm so we had the window of our upstairs room in the cottage open. The raindrops softly beat down on the roof outside the window and you could hear the crickets chirping down below. It was always this way when it rained and as my sister and I snuggled deep into the fluffy covers and waited for sleep to overtake us, we giggled and whispered about what we wanted to do in the morning.

“Oh, I hope it is sunny so we can go pick blueberries, “said Katy. “I do so love walking among the bushes and filling up my pail for Grandma to make a pie.”

“I think I want to stay here and play with Mary next door instead.” I whispered back. But the next day brought more rain so we stayed inside instead.

As much as we loved it when it was nice out at the cottage, we loved it even more when it was rainy. Grandma would make us oatmeal with brown sugar and raisins for breakfast and then we’d read in front of the fireplace or play games that were kept in the large drawers underneath the window seats. There was no television at the cottage but neither of us minded. There were always lots of other things to do. Sometimes Grandpa would take us into the sun porch and talk to people way over in Germany or Japan on his ham radio.

At lunchtime, Grandma would make us grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Grandma loved to cook so in the afternoon we’d climb up onto the high stools at the counter to watch her make pies and cookies, always getting to test the cookies warm out of the oven.

It was a slow and lovely time of our lives, berry picking, walking the back roads behind the cottage, and riding in our boat over to the sand dunes or to Barnhart’s, the little store and boat gas station across the lake.

Our family would make the trip to the cottage every summer and we’d stay for a couple weeks. As we got older, we got more involved in school and work and then, of course, college. I didn’t go back to the cottage for many years. Grandma passed away and Grandpa re-married. Several years later, Grandpa also passed on. I was away at college so my Dad and Katy met Dad’s sister at the cottage to go through Grandpa and Grandma’s things. When they were done, Dad and his sister decided to sell the cottage since no one was going there anymore. It was a sad time for me. I was so far away and couldn’t get there to close the book on that chapter of my life….the chapter full of such warm and wonderful memories.

Many years later, I happened to go through town on my way to see some friends nearby. I was a bit early for our designated meeting time so I decided to make a quick trip to see the cottage. I found the route easily despite it having been 30 years since I was there last. As I drove into the driveway, my eyes welled up with tears.

I parked and got out, taking in as much as I could. I stood beside the car for the longest time looking through the woods at the neighboring cottages and out toward the lake before I started toward the concrete steps down to the door. When I reached the landing below, there were the initials I’d engraved when Grandpa had patched the concrete. I think I’d been about nine years old at the time. I peered in the window of the kitchen. There were no lights on and it was plain to see that there was no one about so I stood on my tip toes and saw that it was exactly as I’d remembered it. There was the counter where we’d sat so many years ago and even the same pictures on the kitchen walls. They had changed nothing.

I walked down the walk toward the front of the white cottage which faced the lake. It still had nearly all windows across the front and I could see that about the only thing missing from the front porch area was Grandpa’s ham radio. I continued around the front to the other side and found the window that looked into the living room. The window seats were still the same with big pillows and blankets strewn about and my heart stopped when I gazed across the living room to see the large ship’s wheel hanging in its place on the wall. Grandpa had used it to hang all of his hats, the hats we borrowed when going for boat rides.

I stood peering in the window with tears running down my cheeks. At that point, I didn’t even care if the owners came home and found me “peeping” in their windows. I knew they’d understand. Finally I walked back to the front and out onto the dock jutting into the lake. It was a new dock; the old one made of wood probably fell apart many years ago. This new one had a bench so I sat down and watched the lake for a few minutes. I smiled at the thought of the times when we’d run to the end of the dock to meet the boat that delivered our mail every day. We’d take turns getting the mail and running it into the cottage for Grandma.

I looked over at the two boat houses. I meandered past the kid’s pool on the way, to the open boathouse, remembering putting worms on a hook and dropping it into the water trying to catch little sunfish or blue gills along the break wall. Next to the open boathouse was the enclosed one. It had a door with a handle and looked to be locked. I gave the handle a turn and to my surprise, it moved. I twisted a bit harder and the door opened when I gave it a bump with my arm.

The very familiar smell of fish wafted out and I was immediately transported in my mind back to my childhood. I swear I could even hear my sister saying, “Come on, Grandpa! Let’s go for a boat ride!” I took a step inside. It was quite dark and it took my eyes a minute to adjust and then sure my heart must have stopped beating for a moment. There in front of me was Grandpa’s boat, still up on the blocks as if waiting for him to come back and lower it into the water as he had done so many times in the past. But Grandpa would never come back.

The memories would never fade in my mind and as I left the boathouse, I made sure that something of Grandpa’s would be with me forever too. I had reached into his boat and lifted out the stool he used to sit on when he worked on his boat. It was as if a piece of Grandpa was coming home with me. It is a crummy little stool covered with paint and God knows what else. When people ask about it, I tell them it was Grandpa’s. They don’t know that the “what else” on that stool is a world full of memories.

I’m sure the foghorn still sounds on the big lake and I know the crickets still chirp under the windows of the cottage. But they chirp for someone else now. Life goes on….and the cottage is etching new memories in the mind of some other child…..