I have just returned from the most restful, relaxing vacation I have ever had in my entire life. We had nine lovely days at my brother Peter’s and his wife Sharon’s lakeside home in Bancroft while they vacationed in Italy. Thank you, Peter and Sharon. Here’s a story I wrote in remembrance of our quiet days of peace and rejuvenation.
Cottage Morning, Waterhouse Lake by Barbara Heagy
They wake me. Their calls are wavering across the lake. I open my eyes and raise the window blind. I see them. They have arrived once again with daybreak. Normally, their eerie calls are short-lived, wild wails, mournful modulations, but this morning they have something more to say. Their talk continues and I get up and go out to see what all the commotion is about.
Five adult loons splash about on the water, dive and recover, hoot to each other, and flash their wings with a tail rattle that sprays droplets into the morning mist. One of them begins to run across the surface, churning up circles of water, wings flapping, as it prepares for takeoff with a running start. Then up, up into the sky, it circles the lake and lands once again with a smooth coasting splash to join the others.
Again, the cacophony continues. Laughing, chortling, a breaking yodel of bird voices, they are a playful party, a mad choir in 5-part harmony. What are they about this morning? We have seen these five this week but never like this. Their song and play goes on for almost a half-hour. Such beauty to the eyes and ears as they romp about in the rising mist. Then, it seems the gathering is over. One by one they retreat to further shores and the lake is quiet once again.
But nature is not done celebrating. The flowers are full of morning dew, reaching, straining to catch the warming sun as it rises in the sky. Orange, red, yellow, pink petals call to the hummingbirds, “Breakfast time.” And they come from their tree-top nests hungry and ready for a new day. There are at least six of them. Although it is difficult to tell. They flash about, whirling and twirling doing aerial acrobatics that amaze and dumbfound as they juggle for space at the three feeders that my brother has erected for them. Extremely territorial, they claim their space boldly and unendingly. It is a dance as they gyrate, and do-si-do, spinning like little helicopters, zipping and zinging as they chase each other back and forth. They are blazing whirligigs, shimmering jewels with iridescent green feathers and ruby throats. Tirelessly they fly about all day long, entertaining and amusing us with their wondrous circus act.
I walk down to the dock, coffee in hand, and just sit. And watch. A small little head pops up just off-shore and I know that the local turtle is checking me out before it dives back down into the cool, deeper waters. This morning there are three of them, one much bigger than the others. The small ones are painted with hints of orange and yellow on the edges of their smooth green backs. The larger one might be a snapping turtle but he seems to mean me no harm. After all, this is his home and I am just a visitor. A quiet one at that.
My fishing pole is sitting on the dock, daring me to make a cast, see if you can catch a fish it says. Harold did. The first day, his third cast, he latched onto a rather large pike. He called out to me, “Bring the camera” and I ran down to the shore, barefoot and eager to see what he had on his line. “Wait, wait until I’m ready. Okay, bring it up.” Snap went the line, swinging like a wet noodle in the empty air. But “Look. He’s right there in the water.” We peeked over the edge of the dock to see a good two foot pike just sitting there in the shallow water, stunned perhaps, a lure still stuck in his mouth, unmoving. For a moment, I looked away, then back, and he was gone. That fish gave us hope. Where there’s one, there will be another. But although we fished every day at different times of the day, we never got another bite. I try again this morning, but to no avail. It’s fun and a challenge just to try; balance a rod in your hand, release the reel, swing your arm and line back, snap it forward and watch your lure soar over the surface and land with a plop in the water with a perfect aim, right where you wanted it to be. Turn the reel handle, the bail clicks, and the line returns smoothly, slowly back to you, cruising the underwater depths as you hope for that sudden yank and taut line that signals a fish has taken your bait. But not this morning and that’s okay.
I turn from the lake and head back up over the dock. A morning glimmer catches my eye. At the edge of the dock where the platform joins the walkway, I see a beautiful web, full of dew and glistening in the sun. I take a picture with my camera, mesmerized by its perfect symmetry and intricate patterns. I turn and then I see another. And another. And another. The shallows are full of shining spider webs, caught between grasses and weeds, woven wonders that thrill and delight. This one looks like a giant suspension bridge strung between thin reeds. That one looks like the glowing sail of a ship. There’s one that looks like a slingshot full of sticky strings ready to nab its prey. One of them connects grassy stalk after stalk with flowing, drooping, connecting lines, moving like interlocking tightropes that flow on and on above the water. Such beauty.
I chase the dragonflies hoping for a photo. They have their own agenda, gliding, bouncing off the surface of the lake, avoiding the sudden slurp as a fish rises hopeful for breakfast. Sometimes they land on the dock or the shoreline grasses. They allow me a quick glimpse into their transparent beauty, wings like clear stained glass windows, bodies of vibrant colours, red, green, turquoise.
I return to the patio and take a seat. I am learning to just sit and wait and watch. Nature will provide some quiet spectacle. This morning, it’s a little more than that. A flock of noisy grackles arrives in a burst of squawking birds, sharp calls, and flapping wings. There’s about thirty of them. They fly about from grass to trees, chasing each other, in zig-zag lines of chaos and clamour. They upset the other birds. The flickers in the tall spruce jump from branch to branch, piercing the air with their high-pitched squeal. This is their territory and they seem fearful of these invaders. The blue jay, guardian of the forest, calls out warnings in its ear-splitting scream. The grackles continue to chatter and chase, owning the space. I stand and move toward the lawn and they retreat to the next door neighbour’s grassy areas. The other birds slowly settle down.
I walk to the base of the flickers’ tree and there on the ground is a small gift, a bright yellow, brown and white feather, a wing feather perhaps, knocked loose in the fearful kerfuffle. A few more steps and I find another prize, a blue jay feather, indigo and black, tipped with a shot of white. I say a little prayer of gratitude for this morning performance where I was granted a free, front row seat.
I breathe and count my blessings, thankful for these moments of rest and relaxation full of nature’s quiet drama and wonders. I close my eyes and lean back. Time for another coffee. Perhaps in a few minutes.
