Illustration by Catherine Chan
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Summer means time at the cottage, and for our family, time at the cottage means projects.
After the morning coffee has been brewed in the 1970s glass percolator, it’s a tradition that three generations sit down over breakfast and make the Job List. There will be some inevitable debate about what makes it on and in what order it gets done but usually, without fail, my Dad will say to his grandkids some version of “there’s brush to clean up so we need to get on that and have a campfire.”
Our cottage sits on about two acres of land and I’ve loved the property for the 35 years we’ve owned it, but only recently have I developed an appreciation for the gift of “the brush.” Sure, it stokes our outdoor campfire pit, is the fuel for our s’mores and campfire cookouts (our slogan: “Three meals, one match”) and makes for great winter fires in the fireplace, but it also gives us a regular activity to do together outside and get a sweat on.
Our forestry crew and child-labour operation has been working the property for over three decades with an informal, unspoken but clear hierarchy. Anyone can carry and stack, the youngest are responsible for kindling, the adults feed the wood through the sawhorse and hold it … but most importantly, only the oldest gets to use the chainsaw.
When Papa, my maternal grandfather, was alive, he ran the chainsaw until he decided that he was ready to retire and become the “foreman,” which also allowed him to oversee our work from a chair with his standard glass of rye and water – something we don’t allow for those operating the chainsaw.
In the two-ish decades since Papa’s retirement as our crew’s chainsaw operator – he handed the role to my Dad – I’ve matured into a fairly typical guy in his mid-40s with a spouse, kids, dog, house, car and career. But the cottage work crew is the one area of my life where my role has been frozen in time, unchanged despite the accelerating greys migrating from my temples. I’m allowed to do a bit of handsaw trimming and splitting with the axe, but there’s never been a discussion about who is going to man the chainsaw. That is my father’s job until he decides to give it up to become our “foreman.”
This was the only part of my life where I could look at the former Prince Charles and say, I think we might have something in common. Or had, now that he’s King and I’m still waiting, first in line for the chainsaw.
One of these days I know my turn is going to come and I’m going to have to figure out chain oil and gas ratios for the engine, but I also know that when that time comes it’s not a promotion I’m going to want to get. So I can be patient, taking enjoyment from us working together and the conversion of brush into usable firewood, the sound and smell of the chainsaw if not the feel of it.
Fortunately, my two kids are good workers so they’ll be able to pick up the slack whenever my Dad decides to retire from the work crew. And I’m also thankful that they’re patient, because they’re going to have to wait a long time for their turn to use the chainsaw, just like the two generations before them.
Michael Douglas lives in Toronto and builds his campfires in Sharbot Lake, Ont.
