Riddles unsolved
Mar. 14th, 2002 03:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
twicketfaceIt was a cottage up on Hills Lake, in Wild Rose, Wisconsin. For one week in August, it became the House of Murton. We packed up the station wagon, dog and all, and made the hour trip from Appleton. As far back as I can remember, the dog farted multiple times on each trip, causing great laughter and much nostril distress to all within the enclosed car.
We got the little red cottage with the terrible furniture. I remember the sofa in the living room that was green and smelled of must and summer. The kitchen table, with legs that would protrude outward, leading to bets in the family as to who would stub their toe first each year. It was usually my mom, but we all had our experiences swearing at that damn table.
The cottage came with dishes to use for our stay, including these weird metal glasses that were perfect for taking down to the beach since they kept drinks very cold. The bathroom was small, with a sink, toilet and shower. One year the dog found a dead fish and decided to go with her natural instinct and roll around in it for a good five minutes before my dad noticed. He got the unpleasant but necessary job of taking the dog in the shower and shampooing the stink away.
I also remember one year when my dad decided to shave his beard off and just keep his mustache. I have been told my comment to him was 'Dad, you look French'.
The cottage was atop a 'hill' of sorts, that lead down to the beach and lake. There were stone slab steps leading to the promise land and a piped railing, which was never touched by my brother or myself. Halfway down the hill, amongst the grass and trees was a headstone for the owner's dog, Pepsi, who passed away a few years after we were regulars.
The screened in porch generally became the domain of my brother and I. There were two roll-out beds that would become our mini-apartments, usually stocked with books and sunscreen. Drifting off to the fresh air and sound of crickets into sweet slumber and being yanked from subconscies by the cawing of birds and the sizzling of bacon frying was a welcome routine.
The beach was my GI Joe battlefield and I'm sure that there are still a few MIA soldiers lying buried. There was a rowboat that we had access to as well, and we would routinely take a fishing trip during the week. The dog wouldn't let us win; getting seasick on the boat if we took her and barking the whole time if we tied her up on the beach. My mom usually did the best at fishing while I was too squemish to rip worms in half and feed them to the fishies.
While our air matresses were notorious for leaking (thanks, again, to the dog's claws), the "Big Float" was our best water toy. I have fond memories of my dad getting into this big innertube, lying on his back (with his ass through the tube's center) and the dog sitting on his chest as he gently paddled around the lake.
Since there was no TV (with the exception of a few years when my parents brought the 13 inch but realized that without an antenna and about $14 worth of aluminum foil we could only get the Static Channel), canasta was our main pass time. My brother and I were each paired up with a parent and played cards for hours. My brother's strategy of holding as many cards in his hand so as to pick up the discard pile often left my dad rolling his eyes and scolding him whem my mom and I would use this to our advantage and go out before he could do any damage.
The cottage days were a time of imagination, adventure and escapism. Five or so years ago the owners got too old to maintain the cottages and instead of turning over the properties to new owners, they decided to stop renting out the cottages and renovate one of them into what would become their retirement home. They chose our little red cottage on the hill.
We got the little red cottage with the terrible furniture. I remember the sofa in the living room that was green and smelled of must and summer. The kitchen table, with legs that would protrude outward, leading to bets in the family as to who would stub their toe first each year. It was usually my mom, but we all had our experiences swearing at that damn table.
The cottage came with dishes to use for our stay, including these weird metal glasses that were perfect for taking down to the beach since they kept drinks very cold. The bathroom was small, with a sink, toilet and shower. One year the dog found a dead fish and decided to go with her natural instinct and roll around in it for a good five minutes before my dad noticed. He got the unpleasant but necessary job of taking the dog in the shower and shampooing the stink away.
I also remember one year when my dad decided to shave his beard off and just keep his mustache. I have been told my comment to him was 'Dad, you look French'.
The cottage was atop a 'hill' of sorts, that lead down to the beach and lake. There were stone slab steps leading to the promise land and a piped railing, which was never touched by my brother or myself. Halfway down the hill, amongst the grass and trees was a headstone for the owner's dog, Pepsi, who passed away a few years after we were regulars.
The screened in porch generally became the domain of my brother and I. There were two roll-out beds that would become our mini-apartments, usually stocked with books and sunscreen. Drifting off to the fresh air and sound of crickets into sweet slumber and being yanked from subconscies by the cawing of birds and the sizzling of bacon frying was a welcome routine.
The beach was my GI Joe battlefield and I'm sure that there are still a few MIA soldiers lying buried. There was a rowboat that we had access to as well, and we would routinely take a fishing trip during the week. The dog wouldn't let us win; getting seasick on the boat if we took her and barking the whole time if we tied her up on the beach. My mom usually did the best at fishing while I was too squemish to rip worms in half and feed them to the fishies.
While our air matresses were notorious for leaking (thanks, again, to the dog's claws), the "Big Float" was our best water toy. I have fond memories of my dad getting into this big innertube, lying on his back (with his ass through the tube's center) and the dog sitting on his chest as he gently paddled around the lake.
Since there was no TV (with the exception of a few years when my parents brought the 13 inch but realized that without an antenna and about $14 worth of aluminum foil we could only get the Static Channel), canasta was our main pass time. My brother and I were each paired up with a parent and played cards for hours. My brother's strategy of holding as many cards in his hand so as to pick up the discard pile often left my dad rolling his eyes and scolding him whem my mom and I would use this to our advantage and go out before he could do any damage.
The cottage days were a time of imagination, adventure and escapism. Five or so years ago the owners got too old to maintain the cottages and instead of turning over the properties to new owners, they decided to stop renting out the cottages and renovate one of them into what would become their retirement home. They chose our little red cottage on the hill.
