”Well the midnight headlight blind you on a rainy night,
“Drivin’ My Life Away” by Eddie Rabbit
Steep grade up ahead, slow me down, makin’ no time…”
I was habitually demoted to the middle seat, the default spot for the youngest and smallest child – and the bane of my existence during our annual, sweltering, and grueling eight-hour road trip (with multiple pit stops!) to Cozy Cove Cottages on the south shore of Lake Nipissing, where my dad had spent his own childhood summers fishing with his family at a neighbouring camp. From our un-airconditioned car, my sisters relished the cool breeze and unobstructed views of the Canadian Shield from the comfort of their window seats, sometimes even witnessing real-time rock blasting to accommodate the growing needs along Highway 11, while I sat dutifully wedged on the rigid leather hump that ran over the exhaust of my father’s 1971 purple Plymouth GTX sportscar.
Contrary to what you might expect, window privileges weren’t reserved solely for my older sisters. My dad had a daughter from a previous marriage, four months younger than me. She lived in Montreal with her mother and joined us for two weeks every summer at Cozy Cove. In their efforts to make her feel welcome, my parents always gave her the coveted window seat.
Despite her blonde hair and tall, slim figure that made her look like part of the family, an emotional gap remained. Her visits were infrequent, and when she did come, it often felt as though we were hosting a foreign exchange student rather than welcoming a sister—or rather, a stepsister. We never truly developed an emotional connection with her—or with any of my dad’s family, really.
Little Me sometimes felt a pang of jealousy over the attention she received, especially given her aloofness. She didn’t seem to want the affection or extra attention that was so readily offered to her—and I wasn’t shy about pointing that out! See previous post *cringe*. Still, I was too caught up in having fun to dwell on these feelings for long. It wasn’t until many years later, when I thought to mention her to my own sons, that I realized just how distant our relationship truly was.
Weeks before our departure, my dad would start preparing his lists: tasks to complete, items to purchase and meals to prepare. Boxes and coolers lined the hallway and living room, gradually filling up as he checked off items from his trademark lists scattered across the kitchen table.
True to his character, he meticulously planned every detail: our food rations, clothing provisions, gas station locations, road conditions and medications, and, of course, fishing gear. He even allocated our allowances in personalized coin holders he’d saved throughout the year. Mine, however, usually vanished within the first few days on my favourite treats like ice cream, Pac-Man games, pink popcorn, and the latest Archie and Jughead magazines from Daisy’s tuck shop—a habit I could never resist, even though it always left me shamelessly begging my parents for more. Watching the boxes fill up brought a thrilling sense of anticipation, as his careful preparations always promised an exciting and well-organized adventure. He expertly loaded our luggage onto the car roof, fitting suitcases and duffel bags into a homemade wooden box. With a haphazard mix of bungee cords and ropes, he secured the load and covered it with a large, tattered plastic tarp that had clearly endured many windy trips down the highway. It was only once we were all settled into the car that he would carefully place the cooler between the front seats, packed with fresh ice, sandwiches, pops, and a bottle of vodka for roadside cocktails. Yes, really. The Griswold family adventures had nothing on us.
We always stayed in the Log Cabin—an enchanting, lake-front cottage known for its rustic charm, chunky pine furniture, and characteristic timber construction adding to the woodsy atmosphere. Since the cabin only had three bedrooms, my older sister agreed to forgo her “older sister” privileges and share a room with me. Like I had on the long ride there, she sacrificed her comfort so our stepsister could have her own bedroom—or as my parents put it, her “alone time” to “respect her space and boundaries” and “avoid pressuring her into activities she wasn’t comfortable with.” “Gag me with a spoon,” said Sassy 80s Me with a dismissive eye roll. Little did they know, we were secretly thrilled to share the coolest room – alone, tucked away in the attic.
Perched above the rest of the house, with slanted ceilings, exposed beams, and small, weathered windows with wrought iron latches that popped open with a stubborn creak, our bedroom felt like a hidden retreat. The attic exuded fairy-tale charm as I read Fireside Tales to the soothing sounds of waves slapping against the shore and rustling leaves in the tall trees just outside my window—my favourite sounds to this day. Adjacent to our bedroom was a large loft where all the kids gathered on rainy days to play classic board games like PayDay and Full House, or indulge in the spooky thrill of “Features of a Werewolf.” It became a haven for all the camp kids, who always seemed to congregate at our place, drawn by the magic of the Log Cabin and our fun-loving family.
Swim. Itch. Repeat.
Despite the risk of catching “swimmer’s itch”—a common occurrence at Lake Nipissing—we spent hours in the warm shallow water with its sandy bottom, catching minnows and racing to sandbars. We wrestled on air mattresses, played water tag, perfected our dives off the dock and, at the end of each day, water-skied on the smooth, glass-like water just before sunset. The immune reaction to water-borne parasites caused an annoying rash, but it was harmless beyond the irritation. After our lengthy time in the lake, we spent equal time applying cool, wet compresses and anti-itch creams late into the night, much to my mother’s delight. And then, we’d do it all over again the next day. Much to my mother’s delight.
My dad, an avid fisherman, spent his childhood summers casting lines with his siblings and winters ice fishing with his dad on this very lake. He was always eager to share his passion, teaching my mom and us how to bait hooks and fillet our catches with his well-worn fillet knife in the fishing hut, where the distinct metallic scent of freshwater fish scales and guts clung to the wooden walls, and the grooves on the filleting table told the tales of fresh catches and long, productive days.
From lake to table.
The simple pleasures of fishing were savoured as my parents hosted their traditional fish fries. Family and friends gathered to celebrate the catch and camaraderie, with my dad proudly grilling freshly caught trout, perch, or pickerel to perfection, while my mother prepared the perfect accompaniments: macaroni salad, potato salad, baked beans and corn on the cob. Music and cold beverages were always staples for our hot summer days and fish feasts, creating a tradition that celebrated summer, fishing, and the joy of sharing a meal around the large harvest table, with the soft murmur of the lake and the hallmark golden sunset in the background.
The fire pit just steps from our door was the heart of our gatherings, drawing in family and the many friends we made throughout the camp. After long days of swimming, fishing, or beach activities, we capped each day with epic wiener and marshmallow roasts that stretched late into the night. And, of course, there was my compulsive yet meditative sweeping of the sandy floors at the end of our busy days, driven by my ever-looming need for order.
The lake that connects generations.
With so many cherished memories of their time on Lake Nipissing, it’s no wonder my parents often dreamed of retiring there. Though they never had the chance to make that dream a reality, I like to think my mom would’ve felt pretty damn proud knowing her grandson regularly drove the now-finished highway she once travelled, admired the same Canadian Shield she once did, and swam the same waters she had while attending the nearby university. And while the sun eventually set on those magical, adventurous, joy-filled, and unforgettable summer days, the memories made and the friendships forged never faded.