LINDSAY CAMPBELL/The Globe and Mail
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'Your pavilion is a shrine to dining," Deo mused. "I hope you give me credit for it."
My twin was reminiscing about the construction of my idyllic standalone eating house set at the water's edge on my farm in Prince Edward County.
Eight of us, family and friends, were savouring the cheese course of our Thanksgiving dinner in 2010. A star-studded evening sky had taken hold over the open waters of Lake Ontario. A fire blazed in the outdoor limestone fireplace. Surrounded by a chardonnay vineyard and a field of lavender, my eating pavilion was more Mediterranean than Canadian Shield.
After much debate about design and size, I had built Le Pav, as it has since been labelled, in 2004, with support pillars matching the main house a few yards away. Twelve feet wide by 14 feet long, with oversized double-hung windows on all sides and finished in barn board, the pavilion had become our go-to space for meals, cocktails and afternoon snoozes on the down sofa.
"I don't recall you even being here," I replied to Deo, who was working the party into a frenzy of curiosity. My brother was always claiming input to my legion of restored crumbling houses.
"I wasn't," D chimed, "but I sent you that article from Côté Sud outlining how modern banqueting houses can be temples to feasting and friendship." He paused to ensure he had everyone's attention. "Along with a sketch of how it should look. Exactly like this." Bro was on a mission of authorship.
There is something deliberately distorting about memory. We can lose it and we can create it. For some, memory is more imagination; they remember things the way they wished them to have been. I had no recollection of any magazine piece. In my mind, Le Pav was my creation, reflecting design principles evolved during my reinvention of many ruins – multiple sight lines, comfort, harmony and a balanced exterior.
"It is a perfect room," neighbour David offered, recharging our glasses with Cabernet Sauvignon.
"What makes a perfect room?" his wife Marilyn asked. "An exhilaration," Diane suggested. "A room with aura," Philip called out. "It's about textures and complexity," suggested Ann, our resident artist.
I was pleased that my dinner companions found the ambience so alluring, but it wasn't the right time to get into a competition with my twin. We have a history of overlapping obsessions. I suggested we move to the array of sweets contributed by Marianne, a pastry chef.
"A toast to brother Alan!" D was on his feet. "And his life-enhancing dining pavilion!" He reached over to clink my glass. "A space we feel compelled to return to."
Fast forward to Thanksgiving 2013, another feast in our banqueting house. Deo was in attendance, of course, along with many of the same guests of previous years.
Joanie and I had lost a vital member of our household in the summer of 2012. Our vigilant detective dog, Roger, had crossed the threshold to the Otherworlde. At 16, with ankylosing spondylitis of the spine, Roger had gone off to find a cool, dark place to lie down and die. Country dogs often do that.
We spent weeks looking for her to give her a decent burial, or at least to retrieve her collar for the grave we had dug under the walnut tree. The following winter and spring we renewed our efforts. We searched the neighbouring fields, woodlands and ditches. Nothing. Then, in early fall last year, while planning for our Thanksgiving tradition, I recalled the conversation about shrine dining that Deo had initiated under the magical night sky; his line about "a space we feel compelled to return to."
On a whim, I went to the water side of the pavilion, where the land begins the slope to the escarpment at the lake. An unruly spirea hedge camouflaged a small opening beneath the floor joists. With some digging and a powerful flashlight, I was able to peer into a crawl space under the pavilion. At the far end, where the light spiralled to purple, a reflection bounced off the shards of light, something in the shape of a buckle. I fetched a grape hoe from the tool shed. With its 8-foot shaft and perpendicular rake, I was able to snag a faded red collar with a silver identification tag.
Sometimes non-disclosure maintains the natural asymmetry of sibling relationships. I decided to withhold the news of the discovery from my brother.
A few days later, eight of us gathered in the pavilion for our Thanksgiving feast. County vintages flowed in all directions. As is my custom, I rose at the end of the table to welcome everyone. "To Joanie, the chatelaine without whom this meal would not be possible." We went around the table as each guest proposed a toast of thanks.
Deo, using the powers of telepathy I ascribed to him because he was the twin born in the caul, rose to salute "spaces that bring us together to dine and say goodbye."
Although he didn't know it, I had draped Roger's collar around the vase of wild flowers on the serving table behind him.
Alan Gratias lives in Toronto and Prince Edward County.