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The screen door had to slam. That’s what we were told when we bought our cottage property 32 years ago. There were only a few cottages around us at the time and they all had screen doors. Our waterfront neighbours said we had to have wooden screen doors and they had to snap every time they were shut. It was part of the cottage-country music, along with the whip-poor-wills at dusk and the loons in the early-morning mist rising off the lake.
It was also a bit of an alarm clock. Snapping screen doors told everyone who was up in the morning.
Back then, we were one of the group of old-school cottagers at this end of the cottage road. Our midsummer socializing around a campfire would bring out stories of remember when. Once again, we would talk about that time shoes were frozen to the floor when cottage opening coincided with the last snowflakes in spring (plywood being the flooring of choice in old-fashioned cottages).
The wooden structure that went up on our property was simple. It kept us out of the rain and was more solid than the tent we’d used the first year. The cottage had reclaimed windows and doors, and second-hand appliances, but it felt like our little lakeside castle. And it had a screen door that snapped.
It remained simple for many years as our sons were growing up. We built a pocketful of memories – Playing Marco Polo at the raft, Capture the Flag at dusk and everything else in between added up to a simple and happy cottage life.
At the back of the property sits the “backa house,” earth closet, outhouse – however you want to describe it. Much to the chagrin of the neighbours, I am sure. If the thought of an outhouse makes you go “yuck,” then you wouldn’t get my cottage at all. It isn’t Country Home and Garden. For the very faint of heart I did install an indoor, eco-friendly loo a few years ago. I consider it state of the art – a real flusher to an outside composter. When the family descends, I have more bathroom options here at the cottage than I do at my house in town. And those who pass up the late-night run down the path to the little house out back miss the fireflies lighting the way.
My life changed when I became a single mom and had to figure out how to do cottage upkeep and repairs on my own. I persevered and somehow managed to keep the place going. It was a financial stretch, but well worth the effort. For my sons it was the glue for our newly formed family unit of three. That alone fed my determination through some challenging financial times.
As the years went by, the group of cottagers began to change. Gradually, the whole tenor of our bit of cottage paradise began to change as well. The talk of retiring to the cottage became reality for some of the locals. That meant upgrades and improvements, and losses – the snap of screen doors being one.
The mood of the area shifted as well. Where once the cottage was the anticipated destination after a work week, now it was home to an increasing number. The holiday socials diminished as the holidays became just one more weekend for many.
Monster homes began encroaching. Small pieces of property that had been divided for 1,000-square-foot cottages sagged under the weight of 3,000-square-foot homes.
Natural country vegetation got pulled out and urban plants and trees took their place. Instead of country life, it was looking more and more like a subdivision with a water view.
And then there’s me. The holdout. The granny who sits in her little cottage in the shadow of the monster homes.
I let the vegetation run wild because the animals like it that way. My grass is only cut when the bees have had their fill of the flowering clover in my ersatz front lawn. This year there are, once again, lots of big bumblebees: babbity bumbles, my grandson calls them.
The style is family-memories kitsch. The hallway is a gallery of summers past, with grandchildren at varying stages of babyhood learning to love the cottage the way their fathers do. My sons want to share the feeling only an old-fashioned cottage can give you.
The very fact it is not fancy is exactly why it is charming. There have been some upgrades over the years, so it’s not exactly the primitive piece of country it was 32 years ago. The interior walls and ceilings have been finished. We no longer stare at pink insulation wrapped in plastic. The post foundation that was supposed to last 50 years (and didn’t) was replaced with cement pads. Some work was necessary, but it was done more for comfort than prestige.
The grandchildren can still run across the floor with wet feet after swimming. It won’t hurt anything. They can have their tubby in the plastic bin placed beside the fireplace. They can climb into the bunk beds and play games with a plethora of pillows and blankets.
But each year I feel the pressure more and more. One more monster home, one less natural bit of beauty gone as centuries-old trees are felled to make way for the next urban elephant home. The times they are a-changin’. But my screen door still snaps with echoes of years gone by.
Linda Simpson lives in Brockville, Ont.