The Joy of Peeing in the River

By Kay MacDonald

Life on the river can be exciting for a spectator who watches weekenders enjoying the wilds of Up North. Including in this book are stories of fishing, canoeing, kayaking, tubing, some foolish acts of our own, and what happens when people dont know whos watching.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491776728

Kay MacDonald

I grew up in Michigan, a sunburned, rowdy tomboy who knew from the age of four that I would write the great American novel. So much for childhood dreams. I read and read and planned ahead but as Joan Collins says, “Clouds Got In My Way”. I attended Michigan State University when it was still Michigan State College and moved to Long Beach, California and attended LBCC which was culture shock for a country girl. From there I Iived in Astoria, Oregon for two years and the most glorious day of my life was spent on Clatsop Spit where the Columbia River meets the Pacific. Sadly it is now a humungous parking lot but back then it was a wonderland of beach combing. Back to Michigan and Michigan State where I rediscovered the crush I’d had for years on my brother’s friend. We married, the event that probably saved my life from shear inanity, produced two unimaginably beautiful girls, and lived on a twenty acre farm where I raised dogs to show and breed, groomed, ran a boarding kennel. All my earnings supported Quarter horses and Paints and we showed and bred them until we felt like our arms were a foot longer from toting water pails and hay bales. Twenty six years ago we moved here to the river with 8 dogs and the naive belief that our neighbors would love them as much as we did. Now that we’ve reached an age of some wisdom we have one Cairn Terrier. I would really like at least one more. Who knows, we’re here for the duration. More clouds could come my way.

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The Beginning

Twenty six years ago we moved to this community of lakes and rivers with 8 dogs. Sane people do not have 8 dogs. Enough said. We are, however, considerate and it had taken us a long time to find a place where we wouldn’t upset the peace of neighbors who would soon be armed enemies.

We found our place at the dead end of a sandy trail along the river with only summer cottages. Before that we’d found 20 vacant acres on a shallow, swampy lake where I could foresee the days spending their days rollicking in the muck. Then a lot in a gated association of beautiful homes with great lake views. No place for 8 loud sociable dogs.

We knew we had found our home when Galway, our Lab male, piled out of the car and into the river and took a long, blissful whiz in the once pristine water. Daisy Nell, his mate, watched him, applauding, and little mutt, Louie Malone, ran out on a tenuous branch and gaped at the audacity.

A hectic month later the Beagles arrived and Miss Peggy, Commotion, Dolly, Hut and Poppy, were stowed in their kennel and, as expected, set up a whale of questions.

So here we are too many years later, still hiding out in the Valley of the Dogs. The Terrible Eight are gone now, never replaced with that many again. We’re down to a reasonable number, two Cairns Terriers and two visiting Dachshunds. None of them pee in the river. They’d rather lift a leg in salute to each other anywhere else, sadly in the house on occasion.

Our river house has been a perfect setting for dogs to bark and stretch their legs and commune with nature as they gage into the sky with innocent eyes and pee on it all.

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A Bridge Too Far

Finding an address in our township is akin to setting off with Lewis and Clark. We keep a blanket and an emergency food supply in our Jeep just in case the search encounters uncharted hazards. We do have road names since the county hooked up to 911 but without a GPS a person could be lost on these little winding, woodsy roads until the Mounties showed up.

Many directions are given on land marks that last existed before 1940. The Yellow Barn Corners. The only barns there now are white with brown trim and have been for over 20 years. Still, it’s Turn at the Yellow Barn Corners. Old School Road is common in these areas but here no one can recall any school that ever existed near there. The old Master’s place. The street the ice house was on. Right next door to where Bill’s Bar burned down in thirty six. Where the old post office stood. Sometimes I throw out these directions myself just so people will think I’m a native but actually I don’t know where any of them are either.

Main roads are numbered here: Ten Mile, Eleven Mile, Eleven and a Half Mile, etc. But Eleven Mile is Benny Lake Road for a half mile or so and Eleven and a Half Mile turns into Franklin and/or Woodlane every so often.

Some roads just stop at a river or swale or a big tree and take up again three or four miles further on but occasionally North and South get mixed up and you have to take a sighting from the sun unless the trees hide it when you have to get out of the car and see what side of the trees the moss grows on.

The rivers and lakes confuse things and the names of the lakes don’t help: Big Evans Lake, Little Evans Lake, Crooked Evans Lake and Chain of Lakes which includes them all plus Ranny Lake and Deep Lake. Those are only about ten percent of the lakes here.

There are two decent sized rivers and sixty two tributary creeks. Three or four River Roads plus South River Road, East River Road and Little and Big River Roads are not self explanatory. Bridges help define the area: James Bridge, South River Road Bridge, Silver Creek Bridge, Dead Man’s Bridge which is also known as Ravine Bridge. The bridge nearest our house is Driscott Bridge but everyone calls it The Bridge Where The Man Strung Barbed Wire. It’s a popular recreation site where a surplus of people launch canoes, swim, fish and snip barbed wire.

The main road to our house is known locally as Baxter Road after a family that owned a resort on Laurel Lake many years ago but the road sign says Laurel Lake Road. On county maps for some reason known only to bears and squirrels it is listed as Cutler Road. Try to explain this to someone who never knew the Baxters, never heard of Laurel Lake and doesn’t speak to bears or squirrels.

The side road we live on is Schafer Lane though I don’t know who the Schafers were and neither does anyone else. It is a private road a mile and three quarters long and it fades away by the time it gets to us into a not quite one lane sand trail. Off from it, on the way down here, are half a dozen nice paved driveways with big gates, elaborate name signs and house numbers. In the