Since retiring, my wife and I spend every Christmas at our Florida home. Usually, one or both of our daughters will come down, with husbands and children in tow, to spend the holiday with us.
Friends often ask us if we miss Christmas in the snowy north. I offer a vigorous, “No!”, and when they ask why, I tell them the story of our ill-fated Christmas at the cottage.
Our daughters were eleven and ten that year, when friends, who had decided to spend their traditional twelve days on a sunny, southern beach, invited us to use their cottage for our celebration—preparing for Santa’s arrival, skiing and skating in a winter wonderland, and just relaxing. We jumped at the chance, little realizing what lay in store for us.
I should have known all would not be idyllic when our friends gave us five pages of notes, detailing what we’d have to do when we arrived at the retreat in the woods. There were instructions for opening and closing the place, turning on the water system when we arrived, draining it when we left, using the fireplace, enjoying the snowmobile, shoveling snow off the roof, removing the occupied mousetraps—in short, a whole lot of things that could go wrong.
They left us their car to use, much larger than our own, a fully-equipped but much-travelled station wagon that had been around the track more than a few times. On the day of our departure, I discovered that the rear tailgate, the sort that was supposed to open two ways, down like a truck tailgate or out like a car door, wouldn’t open at all. Consequently, I had to load all our gear, including skis and poles, through the rear window, which could still be powered down. As each armload went in, I had to clamber over the rear seat to pull the stuff forward. I was delighted, as you might imagine, with the challenge.
We took to the road, full of anticipation for our family Christmas at the cottage, on the very day that the first freezing rainstorm of the season hit the area. That cheered me immensely.
With the six of us aboard—I, my wife and two daughters, plus two dogs in the rear, trampling and drooling on all the packed items—the car windows steamed up almost immediately. They remained that way for the duration of the four hours it took us to complete the two-hour drive. Nobody spoke out loud during the final hour!
We arrived, finally, to be greeted by a winter wonderland. The deep snow, now covered in a slippery mantle by the freezing rain, sparkled and glinted in the twilight. As promised in our five pages of instructions, the driveway had been plowed just far enough off the township road to allow us to park the car. The walk from there to the cottage was just what we had expected—arduous, but exhilarating.
The snowmobile was right where the notes said it would be. But to my chagrin, it wouldn’t start! In spite of my repeated (and somewhat profane) encouragement, it would not come to life. Thus, we had to lug in all our gear by hand, twelve trips back and forth between the cottage and the car, dragging the heavy items behind us in a large snow-scoop, toboggan style.
Oh, what fun we had!
Once inside, with everyone unpacking and sorting our supplies, I turned my attention to turning on the water. The notes our friends had left me were very detailed on this particular chore. The pumphouse in the basement was a tangle of pipes and faucets—my friend does his own plumbing—all tagged and colour-coded to ensure compliance with the proper way of operating the system. Without my notes, I’d have been totally lost; with them, I was merely overwhelmed. Nevertheless, I followed the steps as written, praying fervently all would go as planned. And it did….at least at first.
Some twenty minutes after our initial rejoicing over running water, the dishwasher sprang a raging leak from somewhere underneath. I was able to turn off its feeder-faucet before too much damage was done, and I even managed to find the source of the problem—a burst pipe. Because I was unable to fix the leak, the dishwasher remained inoperable for the duration of our stay.
Eventually, everything was done. The food was safely stored away, our bags were in the proper bedrooms, the deck and walkway were shovelled clear of snow, and the Christmas tree that had journeyed north on the roof of the car was standing, fully decorated, in the living room. At last, we began to enjoy our Christmas holiday.
Of course, we couldn’t ski because the rain that accompanied us north continued to fall, washing most of the snow away in one day. Nor could we go skating on the lake, because the milder temperatures that came with the rain turned the ice to slush.
If it hadn’t been for the decorations strung around the interior of the cottage, and the sound of the old, familiar carols, we wouldn’t have known we were enjoying a Christmas interlude. With all the mud, it was like a spring holiday—until the last day, that is. Then, about five hours before we’d planned to pack the car for home, the snows returned with a vengeance.
So again, thanks to the immobile snowmobile, we had to trudge through knee-deep, new-fallen snow, from cottage to car, packing up everything we had to take home. I cursed every step!
I could hardly wait until the next time our friends offered us the use of their cottage when they weren’t going to be there. I planned to torch the place.
tallandtruetales 