I paddle back.
I have a mental picture of 'Flint's Pointer', both fascinating and creepy. Something inside of me is saying, "Don't get creeped out by anything, just get on with your work."Good advice.
I have a bit of lunch - the leftover fruit cocktail, ryvita, cheese and trailmix - and, as the rain is still holding off, I decide to have a go at building my stretcher frame.
*
I fetch from my stockpile three ten foot cedar poles, and propping them in turn across the fire pit rocks, cut two of them down to 8' lengths and one into two 3' 8" lengths.
The diameter of the cedar poles will add (roughly) 2" at each end of the short sides.
I find amongst my tin of nails, four 3" common nails and, (with great difficulty), manage to pound one into each of the long sides, and through to the short side.
(Let me just say here that this takes forever.)
I suppose, in a way, doing all of this seems a bit of a waste of time. I could work on the canvas as it is - on the ground with a rock in each corner to keep it from blowing around. But this is one of the funny things about being here, on my own, on Trinity Lake. There really is no 'time' to waste. I am doing what strikes my fancy. There is nothing more pressing, no one to tell me I could do things more efficiently, no one else, in fact, to consider.
It is a glorious, meditative part of my process.
And a time to think.
I finally manage it.
It looks, well, rustic and is somewhat wobbly. I strengthen it all by tacking on a crosspiece, a 12" (flattish) cedar stick, to each corner.
I cut my canvas, leaving a 6" margin all around and lie it top-side-down on a flat open part of my site.
I lie the frame over it.
In the centre of one long side, I begin the long process of pulling the canvas taut up and over the stretcher, tacking it in place. First tack, then another directly across in the centre of the opposite side, then the centre of one short side, then the opposite.
Surprisingly, it is coming together.
The next round, a tack on either side of the first tack, leaving about two inches between, pulling the canvas nice and snug with each tacking, then the opposite side, short side, opposite.
It is quite satisfying work, and warm work, so after the sides are just about complete, I head down the trail to the water, strip and ease myself in.
I float on my back.
And think.
*
August 1966
As time ticked by, I worked out a strategy. I would ask the doctor, (when I had my approaching two week check-up), if I could spend the rest of my recuperation at camp. My reasons were threefold:
I would agree to ANY instructions.
There was a camp nurse.
It would make me exceedingly happy.
I worked out this plan, saying nothing to my parents. I had one very big weapon on my side.
The fact that this would allow my parents to spend a month in Jersey, I knew would definitely work in my favour.
I cut my canvas, leaving a 6" margin all around and lie it top-side-down on a flat open part of my site.
I lie the frame over it.
In the centre of one long side, I begin the long process of pulling the canvas taut up and over the stretcher, tacking it in place. First tack, then another directly across in the centre of the opposite side, then the centre of one short side, then the opposite.
Surprisingly, it is coming together.
The next round, a tack on either side of the first tack, leaving about two inches between, pulling the canvas nice and snug with each tacking, then the opposite side, short side, opposite.
It is quite satisfying work, and warm work, so after the sides are just about complete, I head down the trail to the water, strip and ease myself in.
I float on my back.
And think.
*
August 1966
It was during that week at the cottage, the week after my first summer of The Loop, and before the school year began, that my father read 'Treasure Island' aloud in the evenings.
We had no television at the cottage, and reading aloud wasn't foreign to us, though I remember thinking that we were all a bit old to be read to. At first, my older brothers disappeared to other rooms, leaving my mother, Dennis and me as audience. My mother chose to stay. She nearly always had a knitting project on the go, and spent cottage evenings that way most often. But Dennis and I were given no choice. Our father was reading 'Treasure Island', and we were to be in the room.
I, at first, slumped in a chair on the other side of the room, wanting to be outside. But by the end of the first chapter, I was next to my father, partly in order to see N.C. Wyeth's illustrations, but more, to take it all in, my father's glorious reading voice, his love of the story, and the way he'd put one arm around my shoulders to let me lean up against his side, taking in his end-of-day scent - of sweat and earth, scotch and 'Erinmore Mixture' pipe tobacco.
By the second night of 'Treasure Island', all of my brothers hung around.
The cottage, built in the 1940's, had a large wood panelled living-room with a stone fireplace, three small bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom. The rooms were divided by eight foot walls and open above, so that, if someone were reading aloud, it could be heard throughout the cottage. Unless they were outside, my three eldest brothers couldn't help but hear the developing story. By the time Jim Hawkins, hidden in an apple barrel, overheard Long John Silver's plans of mutiny, my brother's were all in the living-room and leaning over the backs of chairs, or sprawled on the floor, I knew then that Dennis and I had the best seats in the house.
By the end of the week, I was begging my father to read, so as to finish 'Treasure Island' by the time we headed back to Toronto, and school.
My father, in his usual quiet, diplomatic way, had brought me round. Brought me, (and my brothers too, I suppose), back into the fold.
It became easier after that. I missed camp, but decided to deal with it by preparing myself for next summer. As I couldn't canoe in the winter, and swam only now and then, I tried out for every sport offered through the school year.
Only Dennis and I remained at our neighbourhood school, my older brothers travelling by bus and subway to downtown Toronto for school. While Dennis and I still walked or rode to and from school together, I knew that he had become more interested in male companionship, or rather, male companionship which didn't involve me.
And I suppose camp had prepared me for that.
I tried out for and made the school girl's basketball team, which played other schools as well as in a community league. This meant two practises and two games a week, and I threw myself into it.
We had no television at the cottage, and reading aloud wasn't foreign to us, though I remember thinking that we were all a bit old to be read to. At first, my older brothers disappeared to other rooms, leaving my mother, Dennis and me as audience. My mother chose to stay. She nearly always had a knitting project on the go, and spent cottage evenings that way most often. But Dennis and I were given no choice. Our father was reading 'Treasure Island', and we were to be in the room.
I, at first, slumped in a chair on the other side of the room, wanting to be outside. But by the end of the first chapter, I was next to my father, partly in order to see N.C. Wyeth's illustrations, but more, to take it all in, my father's glorious reading voice, his love of the story, and the way he'd put one arm around my shoulders to let me lean up against his side, taking in his end-of-day scent - of sweat and earth, scotch and 'Erinmore Mixture' pipe tobacco.
By the second night of 'Treasure Island', all of my brothers hung around.
The cottage, built in the 1940's, had a large wood panelled living-room with a stone fireplace, three small bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom. The rooms were divided by eight foot walls and open above, so that, if someone were reading aloud, it could be heard throughout the cottage. Unless they were outside, my three eldest brothers couldn't help but hear the developing story. By the time Jim Hawkins, hidden in an apple barrel, overheard Long John Silver's plans of mutiny, my brother's were all in the living-room and leaning over the backs of chairs, or sprawled on the floor, I knew then that Dennis and I had the best seats in the house.
By the end of the week, I was begging my father to read, so as to finish 'Treasure Island' by the time we headed back to Toronto, and school.
My father, in his usual quiet, diplomatic way, had brought me round. Brought me, (and my brothers too, I suppose), back into the fold.
It became easier after that. I missed camp, but decided to deal with it by preparing myself for next summer. As I couldn't canoe in the winter, and swam only now and then, I tried out for every sport offered through the school year.
Only Dennis and I remained at our neighbourhood school, my older brothers travelling by bus and subway to downtown Toronto for school. While Dennis and I still walked or rode to and from school together, I knew that he had become more interested in male companionship, or rather, male companionship which didn't involve me.
And I suppose camp had prepared me for that.
I tried out for and made the school girl's basketball team, which played other schools as well as in a community league. This meant two practises and two games a week, and I threw myself into it.
Being fairly athletic, (and built like a boy), I did all right.
All of this helped quicken the passage of winter, until suddenly, or so it seemed, my mother was talking about buying new clothes for camp.
I remember having a loud, defiant arguement with her in the Eaton's girl's bathing-suit department. It seemed, according to my mother, that I was 'ready' for a bathing suit with cups. Never had it ever crossed my mind that I would be forced to wear this, and I insisted that I have a two piece bathing suit, designed for a flat chested eleven year old.
It ended with me marching out of the store and walking home. My mother bought the bathing suit she thought appropriate. The following week, I took some of my limited funds out of the bank and bought the flat-chested red ,white, and blue two-piece.
I suspect my mother knew that I had done this, but said nothing.
Nor did I.
I was on the girl's softball team that spring, and by the end of May we were in the finals. I took a spill in the sixth inning, skidding on my knee and tearing the skin off a large patch. It stung, but nothing worse, until the next morning. As soon as I stretched out that leg, I knew something was wrong. My knee was red, swollen and painful and I found I could put no weight on that leg.
In those days, our long-time family doctor paid house calls, and as in the next few days it became worse rather than better, he was asked to have a look. I was put on a course of penicillin, (as it appeared to be an infection of some sort), and after a few days he came again. Not liking the look of this flaming red mass, he sent me to a specialist at one of the big downtown hospitals, where I was immediately operated on.
This marked the beginning of my recovery, but it was long and slow. I was three weeks in hospital in isolation, as the knee slowly drained and I, hooked up to an IV and not being able to move the leg, was immobile.
I began, as time marched on, (without me), to worry about one thing, and one thing only.
Camp.
I was released from hospital one day before I would, under normal circumstances, have departed for my third summer of camp. I had one half day with my brothers, (who I had not seen for nearly a month due to my isolation in hospital), before the four of them set off for the summer.
And I was to keep totally off of the leg for two weeks before seeing the specialist again.
To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. My parents, once the boys were deposited at camp, suggested the cottage as a consolation prize. At least there I could lie on the daybed on the deck and look out over the lake, they said.
Enveloped in sadness, I could barely reply.
We went.
I spent most of my time at the cottage camped out on the daybed,
All of this helped quicken the passage of winter, until suddenly, or so it seemed, my mother was talking about buying new clothes for camp.
I remember having a loud, defiant arguement with her in the Eaton's girl's bathing-suit department. It seemed, according to my mother, that I was 'ready' for a bathing suit with cups. Never had it ever crossed my mind that I would be forced to wear this, and I insisted that I have a two piece bathing suit, designed for a flat chested eleven year old.
It ended with me marching out of the store and walking home. My mother bought the bathing suit she thought appropriate. The following week, I took some of my limited funds out of the bank and bought the flat-chested red ,white, and blue two-piece.
I suspect my mother knew that I had done this, but said nothing.
Nor did I.
I was on the girl's softball team that spring, and by the end of May we were in the finals. I took a spill in the sixth inning, skidding on my knee and tearing the skin off a large patch. It stung, but nothing worse, until the next morning. As soon as I stretched out that leg, I knew something was wrong. My knee was red, swollen and painful and I found I could put no weight on that leg.
In those days, our long-time family doctor paid house calls, and as in the next few days it became worse rather than better, he was asked to have a look. I was put on a course of penicillin, (as it appeared to be an infection of some sort), and after a few days he came again. Not liking the look of this flaming red mass, he sent me to a specialist at one of the big downtown hospitals, where I was immediately operated on.
This marked the beginning of my recovery, but it was long and slow. I was three weeks in hospital in isolation, as the knee slowly drained and I, hooked up to an IV and not being able to move the leg, was immobile.
I began, as time marched on, (without me), to worry about one thing, and one thing only.
Camp.
I was released from hospital one day before I would, under normal circumstances, have departed for my third summer of camp. I had one half day with my brothers, (who I had not seen for nearly a month due to my isolation in hospital), before the four of them set off for the summer.
And I was to keep totally off of the leg for two weeks before seeing the specialist again.
To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. My parents, once the boys were deposited at camp, suggested the cottage as a consolation prize. At least there I could lie on the daybed on the deck and look out over the lake, they said.
Enveloped in sadness, I could barely reply.
We went.
I spent most of my time at the cottage camped out on the daybed,
looking through the binoculars, reading and drawing.
I had, before going into hospital, clipped out an image of Rembrandt's 'Lion Resting' from one of my art books, and taped it on the wall by my hospital bed.
It was now thumb-tacked beside the daybed.
Hour upon hour I stared at that beautiful drawing.
I wonder now if Rembrandt is, at least partly responsible for my being an artist.
As time ticked by, I worked out a strategy. I would ask the doctor, (when I had my approaching two week check-up), if I could spend the rest of my recuperation at camp. My reasons were threefold:
I would agree to ANY instructions.
There was a camp nurse.
It would make me exceedingly happy.
I worked out this plan, saying nothing to my parents. I had one very big weapon on my side.
The fact that this would allow my parents to spend a month in Jersey, I knew would definitely work in my favour.
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