38 years, and yes, it's getting harder.

May Long Weekend, 2019 The ladder to the loft got longer last winter. And the rocks got rougher. Our disintegrating joints don’t much like the rugged terrain of Rebel’s isle anymore, and balancing between boat and dock is beginning to get tricky. Even so, when the Vic Day long weekend calls we come running like two happy dogs. It’s opening day in cottage country, whoopie! (Whoops! as my foot catches on the mooring line and I stagger from the boat. At least I didn’t fall). We long ago mastered the art of opening up; and yes, there is an art to it. For one thing, we don’t even try to do it all in one day as we used to. We pace ourselves and we have a routine. Annie sets to uncovering things inside. I get out the ladder and the screwdrivers and start pulling down the storm covers. Then we turn to the tarps that covered the nest of furniture we created last fall in the center of the cabin, carefully to keep winters grit on the tarps. We shake them out and roll them up like good campers, then with balletic precision we place the furniture back where it belongs. And then we’re done. The bed is made, the towels are hung, the windows open, all of winters wraps are off and the lake sparkles outside. In years past we’d rest awhile then get back at it. Not any more. We sat in silence on the old screened porch, Annie on the wicker sofa, me in my favourite rocker, making our quiet reconnections with the place: the soft lapping at the shore, the warm damp air tickling our bare arms, the familiar sigh in the timeless pines, and our old friends, the song sparrows putting on a live sex show up in the trees. We passed a blissey half-hour munching on apples, and then we locked up and left. How, you might scream, could we forsake such a perfect day with temperatures soaring, blue skies and a breeze you could bathe in!? To keep it perfect, that’s how. Knowing when to stop is part of getting old, and old is us. Not Old old, but certainly not young and exuberant anymore. Annie’s had a hip replacement. I’ve had ankle surgery – at least now I’m out of ankles to replace; okay, the knees are starting to go but they're not gone yet. We don’t have as much gas in the tank these days, but it doesn’t matter. Weather permitting we’ll be up soon to carry on. Next time it’s the dragging of the outdoor furniture from the crawl space; nasty chore, frog-walking in close quarters with heavy clumsy chairs and tables. Then up and over the rocks and tree roots with chair now balanced on my head. Then I’ll bolt the swim ladder to the dock and get the composting toilet going again. Meanwhile Annie is bleach cleaning sinks and shower to remove an annual gift of muddy boot tracks from our Cottage Country Help who does the hard stuff like putting in the water. Then with the kitchen set right and probably a fire in the wood stove I’ll light the barbecue and pour the drinks. Or maybe not. Maybe we’ll just stop there and come home again. The season is just begun and there’s plenty of time for the list we’ve been making. Every Summer at the cottage begins with a list, doesn’t it? Maybe by summer's end it will be all checked off. Or maybe we will stay and have cocktails on the deck while the coals bloom red in the old Weber. We’ll have a bottle of reasonably good wine with dinner and take the last of it to the porch where we’ll sit and watch the Eastern sky turn a deeper shade of blue as the stars come sparkling out. And then we'll snuggle into bed to listen for the loons eerie calls echoing across the lake. The lake will lick us a lullaby and soon we’ll sleep again on Rebel’s Isle.