Truly this is sweet sorrow.
That last walk along the waterfront. That last lure cast or flat stone skipped. For the brave, that last brief swim. That last look back as you drive up the lane through the leaves of autumn. The view over the stern of the boat as the wake spreads and the cottage dwindles in the ever-growing distance. This is closing the cottage, preparing for winter, putting away the joys of summer. Hating to see the seasons end but knowing that closing holds the certainty of return.
I have snugged up a number of cottages in my life. When I was a child, we closed the old cottage on the Moon River, near Bala, Ont., on Labour Day weekend. Screens stacked on beds, shutters on all the windows, boats under the verandah, and cupboards cleaned and linen stored. Some of that ritual is with me still, although cottage closings have moved from Labour Day to Thanksgiving. And modern cottages—really houses on the shore—never close. (Sadly, they also miss the joy of opening in spring.)
Cottage closings are signalled by two key events—unhitching the floating dock and tucking it away from the ice, and pulling in the waterline. This last is the most traumatic, for running water, hot and cold, is the lifeline of the cottage. More important to most, it lets one use the indoor plumbing. Fastidious people believe summer is truly over when they have to use the outhouse. Not me; I grew up (so to speak) sitting in a two-holer on the Moon.
Pulling in the waterline at our cottage, which is on the Trent-Severn, calls for someone, my younger daughter, Julia, to don chest waders, walk out into the lake, and lift the
