Fortunately Denis came to the rescue. He had more than one bank card, in fact he had several. We then went about finding bank machines at various places which would accept the different cards, and eventually, combined with some money I had on my person and what Denis had, we were able to get enough money together to pay for the chain. And I recall that part of the consideration was the exchange of an arm bracelet which they had previously made for me in 24K gold as well. So we were able to work that all out, and I had my new chain to brighten what was otherwise a rainy and dreary Saturday. I have never forgotten how indebted I felt to Denis for jumping in without a moment's hesitation to pull me out of this otherwise impossible situation. I was to learn over the subsequent years that Denis is in fact generous with most people.
Another event which Denis and I have shared on more than one occasion is a holiday at Green Lake near Calabogie, about an hour's drive from my Office. I say “from my Office” because that is the frequent departure point for me during our holidays at the Lake. Most often, apart from extended weekend stays, I would try to leave the Office early in the afternoon so I could get up there and enjoy a dip in the Lake before having a drink and dinner. The late afternoons at the Lake were unforgettable. The cottage was set on a rocky precipice overlooking the Lake, which was about thirty feet below. The cottage of course faced the Lake, and there was a picnic table between the cottage and the edge of the cliff. And, as fortune would have it, the cottage faced due west, so the sun was always setting over the tree line on the opposite side of the Lake, glistening across the entire face of the water. There we would sit while the gas barbecue was warming up or cooking, having a drink, chatting, and feeding the chipmunks and small brown squirrels, training the chipmunks to eat the shelled peanuts (which we bought by the truck load) from our hands or from the ends of our immobile shoes. We also had the pleasure of watching the humming birds feed at the plastic strawberry which hung from the corner of the cottage roof.
If you were enthusiastic enough, you could get to the Lake by jumping off a plank which jutted out over the Lake, suspended between two large fir trees. I have no hesitation in saying I have never tried it; I use the stairs. Denis, however, has done it, along with most other people whom we know from the Lake, including Ken and Claire Lowry, through whom Denis first came to know about the cottage years earlier. Down at the Lake, there were three docks. One located at the front, the other two located on the east side. It was the latter which we frequented most, because one could enjoy the morning, afternoon and evening sun without having to move. When the sun first came up over the tree line in the morning, it would cause the green water of the Lake (so named Green Lake because of the plenteous lime stone in which it was carved) to come alive like a gem, illuminating the greenish-white rock below, until the edges gave way to what appeared to be unfathomable depths, and the water would become green-black and opaque. Sitting on this dock was a guarantee of a sun-tan or a burn if one was not prepared for it. This particular dock was usually outfitted with two white plastic patio chairs and an old water-logged coffee can for cigarette butts.
One particularly pleasant feature of the dock was that from it one could enter the Lake very gradually, as the rock shore simply melted into the Lake. It was possible to walk out at least fifteen feet before the ledge fell off into the shadowy depths. And from the other nearby dock, one could alternatively dive into the depths without having to concern oneself about the proximate rock ledge. Thus we could in the morning enjoy the comfort of an invigorating bath on the rock ledge, then plunge into the depths to discharge the soap from our body and hair. Like a parent who abandons his child with the grandparents, I always leave Monroe with Denis when we take the cottage. I am positive that Denis enjoys the company, and equally as positive that Monroe enjoys the visit. If nothing else, Monroe's foul smell at the end of the holiday is testimony to the delight he has had in rooting about the forest and rolling in anything and everything he may come upon. Perhaps his trepidatious “dips” into the Lake are responsible for some of the sour smell he acquires, since the Lake no doubt has many odd orgasms in it, though the naked eye would lead one only to conclude that it is perfectly clear and clean.
The cottage is one of three on the same Lake owned by Mr. Clayton Kenny. Though his name sounds very much like someone who would be a native of Lanark County (and he does in fact live in Carleton Place), he is actually a transplant from Ottawa (near the Parkdale area). His claim to fame is that he was an Olympic boxer, and he still looks very wiry, though he must be over seventy years of age. By his own admission, he battled with more than other pugilists. He apparently had quite a time with alcohol, but to his credit he “wrestled” the problem to the ground and he seems (though he is less talkative about this point) to have adopted a new-found spirituality as well. He informed me on a visit across the Lake to another of his cottages that his first wife died ten years ago, but he now has a new “Queen Bee” as he calls her. She is apparently less fond of the Lake and bush than he. He also told me that he has yet another cottage on Mississippi Lake near Carleton Place. Our cottage is reputed to be the least well outfitted of the three. However, it is that very rustic nature which appeals to us and others who rent it throughout the season. It has an outhouse, complete with magazines, air freshener, toilet paper and wet-wipes, screened windows (though everyone just leaves the red door wide open to enjoy the view) and a bag of lime with a can to use to cover one's tracks. It is of course not a place one likes to linger, and I noticed that the page of the open magazine that was there hadn't been turned for weeks. On the good side, the cottage has a very efficient wood stove, and Mr. Kenny very kindly chops and stores enough wood in a nearby lean-to to fuel the fire throughout the entire season (which I understand extends at least to Thanksgiving, if not in fact for periodic visits around Christmas and the New Year). While we have electricity, the running water is cold only. As the water from the kitchen sink simply drains onto the rock below the cottage, we are reminded, when emptying our dishwater out of the plastic basin, to carry the basin outside and throw the dirty water onto an area which is removed from the cottage. A small inconvenience to which one becomes accustomed, especially when there is usually little else to do of a pressing nature. By the way, the dishwashing ceremony is preceded by heating up a generous portion of water (which of course is simply pumped from the Lake) in a large old kettle on the small but efficient stove. Perhaps motivated by the fear that one may become stranded in a remote area without food, we invariably go to the other extreme and cart in sometimes more food than we have room for in the refrigerator. Meals are always a delight, activated not only by that best of all possible sauces - an appetite - but also by the fresh air, the drinks and the generally laziness which surrounds the protracted preparation.
When I invited my father, mother and nieces (Jennifer and Julia) to the cottage during the summer of 1999 to celebrate my father's 81 birthday, we had a huge meal set out, including various cheeses, vichysoisse, steak, chicken, sausage, salad, potatoes, and dessert. Like most mixed grills, people had a small bit of everything, and there were masses of food left-over. That particular day turned out to be perfect, and the girls spent themselves jumping off the plank and climbing back up the rocks to do it all over again. After dinner, as the sun was setting and the Lake was turning back into deep dark green, we all (with the exception of mother and father) went down to the regular dock and swam far out into the Lake, cooling off and watching the lengthening shadow of the trees stretch into the centre of the now darkened but shimmering surface.
Denis and I haven't, however, always enjoyed such tranquil, rustic and humble surroundings. In fact we have a bit of a bent for the less than austere environments, illustrating the significance of that adage, “There are two ways to travel, first class and with kids!”. The early months of our relationship included a bit of hopping about from one city to another, usually only for weekend stays. Places such as Boston, New York and Provincetown (Cape Cod). We usually stayed in the well- known hotels, The Parker House, The Waldorf Astoria and The Captain and His Ship.
Denis, I quickly surmised, had spent a good deal of his leisure hours and silly-money in first class places, particularly restaurants. He has a considerable knowledge of even the most exotic foods and preparations, a preoccupation which he nurtures and supplements daily, experimenting with recipes and constantly browsing over new collections of same. When “The Two Fat Ladies” were such a big hit on Public Television, Denis and I made a virtual scene every late Saturday afternoon, preparing our own rather extravagant evening meal, while titillating ourselves between turkey basting and drinks with the comedy and education of the Fat Ladies. It is more than evident to me that the time Denis and I spend together (which is usually on weekends, because he does not drive an automobile) has contributed enormously to my enjoyment of “the good life”, for lack of a better expression.
Our relationship is very relaxed; each of us is able to do what we want without having to engulf the other in the same preoccupation; and we share enough of the same interests to afford us enjoyable times together. There are of course certain areas of divergence (for example, Denis abhors shopping of any description); and, for my part, I can bear the deprivation of cross-word puzzles. But apart from that, we are what I would call “a nice blend”, and we seem to complement one another in a positive way. We have also been able to undertake certain projects jointly, including not only the acquisition of the condominium in the ByWard Market; but also the concerted loss of weight on the Atkins Revolutionary Diet, something which is clearly best handled in the company of friends, not solo.
In sum, after meeting Denis, I learned to enjoy a more easy- going style of living, less rush, more substance. Lest this aetherized state of mind be dismissed as merely the fallout of aging, I note that Denis is my junior by 5 years. Rather it is more the product of compatibility and intellectual sharing.
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