Be forewarned: while there is some humour here, this is a melancholy topic. Because it’s about selling the family cottage.

Like many Canadians, I have always been attracted to the woods and water and rock. And I was lucky enough to grow up spending time in Ontario’s Muskokas at a cottage my grandmother had built in 1912. It was a real cottage, and I was a real cottage person. It had electricity, but we pumped water by hand and cooked on a wood stove. We cut firewood with a two-man (two-boy, actually) crosscut saw, and we caulked the old rowboat and tried to keep the ancient canoe afloat.

We all believed we had to earn our cottage time – chores in the morning, and swimming and fishing in the afternoons and evenings.

Our chores included reroofing the cottage. Which we did – my brother and I – just before we hit our teens. Our father called out instructions from below and our grandmother said the rosary. And if it was a Monday, my mother and grandmother washed clothes in the old wringer washer while my brother and I pumped the water and set up clothesline. How big a wash? Well, we sometimes had 17 to 20 people on weekends. And that’s a lot of sheets.

After 60 years, that cottage was sold out of the family. Shortly after, we bought another on a small lot near Haliburton, Ont. It was a solid cottage built by a construction carpenter who used leftovers from his regular job. Thus, the interior finish was cobbled together from various shades of panels – such as birch next to mahogany next to maple. And the windows were double storms split to make single windows. The exterior siding was whatever the builder could find. For example, board and batten, then 1x6s and perhaps a square of plywood. And, on the least visible side, the whole outside wall was covered in asphalt roofing shingles.

But the most notable feature was that while this cottage was two levels, it lacked a staircase or even a trap door. To get down from up, you went outside, walked down the steep rock, then re-entered the building.

I loved it, but I did call it the ugliest cottage in Haliburton.

And it did lack privacy. So, we started looking for yet another cottage in which we could settle. And somehow we ended up with an island. An entire island. Beautiful and private, as islands are, and festooned with buildings. Like the maid’s cabin and the sauna and the loft over the boathouse. But we could have privacy and guests could have privacy and the dogs could run free.

We could swim, fish, canoe and sail, and also chop wood and split logs and paint the boathouse and replace the window the grouse flew through. And once, early in the year, I emptied a septic tank by hand. (Not recommended.)

One other aspect I should point out is that a cottage requires a boat or two or three. I grew up with canoes, and my contribution to transportation to the cottage was a 16-foot cedar/canvas canoe. Lovely, but you can’t get eight people, three dogs and enough food for a week into one. Thus, we came to acquire a pontoon boat roughly the same size as our cottage’s living room. With a 50-horsepower motor.

And I believe that other boaters at the marina used to clear their craft out of the way when they saw me loading up. In fairness to me, I never hit another boat. But I did lose a cellphone, three pair of glasses and my car keys, and tipped at least one person into the water from our rocking dock. And, yes, I once jammed the boat into the narrow passage to the marina bay. And was rescued by a 12-year-old boy.

As you can guess, an island cottage like this required much upkeep, and it is a long time since I have climbed onto a roof with a load of shingles. And although I did make my way around with a pot of paint, I never did get to the boathouse windows. I still believe that a cottage person should be a working person, but I now am more likely to sit out on the dock and watch over two miles of open water as the evening sun goes down.

Or perhaps some other person can do that for me.

Cottage for sale.

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