We’re up at our cottage for this first week in May. The ice left our lake only last week and there are still patches of stubborn snowdrifts in the shadowy parts of the forest. Freshly uncovered soil is covered with brown crackly leaves from last autumn. Maple trees have just started to bud and the only ground growth yet are the first shoots of the trillium lilies. The air smells loamy and promising. It’s all so wonderfully familiar. Yesterday as I was walking along the deserted road that circles Paint Lake, I had a powerful sensation of connecting to my past- walking along another lake and through another woods.
We moved to Shanty Bay in June, the summer before I was about to start elementary school. For Pat, Chris and me, and later Sandy, the five-acre property gently sloping down to the lake was our personal paradise.
A cedar forest stood outside of my bedroom window. Here we built tree forts, erected make-shift tents with Money’s old sheets, buried secret treasures, held circuses, made museums, put on plays and staged elaborate games with fluid rules. Our world was our own to organize – without the intervention and rules of adults. In these secret places we could play God.
Later that summer we met some other kids who lived about three miles down the shore. At that time there were no fences or development, only a few rickety old cottages between our houses. Traveling back and forth became all day adventures. Sometimes there were spirits of Indians hiding behind trees pocked with imaginary arrowheads; sometimes there were fairies in the woods that barely eluded us. One of the old cottages was haunted and we would run screaming in horror hearing the restless ghosts rattling inside. Always there was magic.
We believed, or wanted to believe, in crazy things. We would stuff our clothes full of exploded fuzzy milk weed silk and run as fast as we could from the top of the road down to the lake with our arms stretched out- hoping to fly. We left food for the elves that lived in the small caves in the bank. We ate the violets in the spring, believing the sweet purple nectar would grant us special powers.
Often I would get my siblings up well before my parents and organize milk, Shreddies, bowls and spoons. Our trek took us up the road to the giant elm at the bottom of the hill of violets where we’d eat in the sunshine and march home – still in our pajamas. It was during one of these picnic breakfasts that I noticed a patch of soft grass under a willow tree. It was circular, about six feet in diameter and perfectly hidden by the long pale green branches. This became my very own secret place and for many summers I would hide out in the shady alcove, reading favorite books, writing and drawing.
Now my girls like to gently tease me about loving this isolated Canadian cottage in the woods. There are no shops or restaurants and this area is completely devoid of any entertainment or culture except for that of the self made variety. But this place by the lake and the woods makes my imagination soar and my creativity blossom- like I am seven again. Like I can do it all over again. Like I have a secret place, again.
Jen McIntosh
