Exodus

During the summer, on Friday nights, thousands of cars line up on the highway, attempting to impatientienly manoeuver their way up north to their cottages. Horns sound,

cars are cut off; city dwellers already wound tight as a drum from a week of work are further wound on the highway. I, myself, don't drive, but last Thursday I found myself sitting in the back seat of my sister's car while my brother-in-law fought the traffic to our family cottage. Michelle was stressing over whether we'd make it to the cottage in time for sunset, Anthony was mostly just trying to stay mellow in the face of the traffic insanity (he did a pretty good job of it too. Dude is super chill).

Myself, I looked out the window at the scenery passing by. I watched the fields of corn, the swaying of trees, baby animals frolicking with their mothers. I watched as streams cut through fields and bloomed into pools, I saw the beauty of their blue-on-green. I mark the contrast of dilapidated red barns marked against the sky and fields. Soon, rocks could be seen by the side of the road, proud harbingers of Muskoka. I knew we were sitting in stop and go traffic, but I didn't care. I chose to see the beauty, because this entire road is the cottage road, and what's more beautiful than that?

Oh, yeah, actually arriving to this:

I am one of those truly blessed people who was born into a family cottage. More than 70 years ago, my great grandparents decided to build a summer vacation spot for them and their family. My Great Grandfather was a principal at a school, and several teachers bought lots in the same bay. Every summer the families all vacationed their together, with JB leading the way (that's my Great Grandpa. JB Temple).

My cottage was built on the cheap, but it was built by hand. My great grandfather's fingerprints remain on the ceiling from where he laid the boards. His DNA is in the boards that built the cottage, and in me. People who were born to our family, born to the cottage feel like its etched in our bones. My Grandpa, Bud, spent his youth fishing and playing at the cottage. He brought his own six children there every summer. There is a beautiful photo of my mother on the beach in diapers with her curly blonde hair. Many, many years later, there was a photo of me taken in diapers with my curly blonde hair. The continuity is comforting.

The cottage has kept my extended family close. It allowed me to get to know and love my cousins. Every August 1st long weekend we'd have a birthday party for all the summer babies, and this August 1st was no different. In a way, it was a throwback to the long weekends of old, with cousins, aunts and uncles, my Grandmother, and the newest member of our family, my cousin's baby Molly. She's the 5th generation of our family to play in Skeleton lake. This is magical. This place will be in her blood, like it is in her mother's, grandfather's and ancestors.

The sun dips down below the horizon, the sky glows red and purple and orange. The bay is calm and the firey sky is reflected in the waters. We sit and watch the sunset, and for however many we've seen up there, we look at it with new eyes. The beauty never fades. Neither does the love.