The Saga of Wasaga

I've often thought of buying a cottage. While sinking into sleep, I conjure up the sounds of wind soughing through pines and waves rolling against a shore. The waves fill my bladder; after that's attended to, I lay me back down, close my eyes, and visualize my cottage as seen from the shoreline. Up near the road, a sign informs all comers they've reached Decimal Point. The driveway meanders through evergreen woods until it stumbles on a modest seventy-thousand dollar three room wooden bungalow, which sits empty eleven months out of a year. The lot is worth half a million dollars, at least. As I drift further into sleep, a loon calls out on Lake Lethe. I turn and try to spy it gliding along the water, but can't quite find it. Whirling to regard my lovely cottage once again, I find that vandals have been and gone while my back was turned. Windows are shattered, boards have been peeled off the frame, and inside is a shambles. The mailbox is overflowing with tax assessments: one dated "FINAL NOTICE" claims I owe three and a half squillion dollars for the tax year 2010-2011.
I've got to get out of here, my sleeping mind intones, and I run with all the slowness of dreams down to my own private beach. Except when I get there I discover that the sand is actually hundred-dollar bills. The blue-green of the lake has been transformed into an ocean of fives and twenties. Waves of money wash over me from one direction and dunes entrap me from the other and I jerk myself awake before I can drown or suffocate. The call of the loon follows me into the waking world, transforming itself into maniacal peals of laughter: you say you want a money pit?
So the plan is to live here in the city until we retire, and then go as far as we have to in order to find a four-season place on water that doesn't bankrupt us. In the meantime, I get occasional foreshadowings of what is to come. We don't get up to my dad's nearly often enough, but every time I'm up there I make a point of sitting out on deck or dock, lost in a Freedom 95 commercial.
And this past weekend, we went to a cottage in Wasaga Beach owned by the parents of friends. God bless the parents of friends. God bless these friends for inviting us.

I had never been to Wasaga. In fact, before this weekend I knew nothing whatever about the place, which is rare for cities and towns of Southern Ontario. Mom and John's Sunday drive ramblings once took us to Owen Sound, not all that far away, but I'd never seen Collingwood or Wasaga. Searching my personal news archive, I could recall the front page of the Toronto Sun, sometime in the early nineties if not earlier, picturing a seventeen hour traffic jam in Wasaga Beach. Such strong people-magnets have always held little attraction for me: hell, I'd think, you might as well vacation in the streets of Brooklyn, running through the spray from the fire hydrants. Smell that nice fresh car exhaust! Careful picking your way along the sand not to stub your toe on any of two million acolytes of the Great Goddess Melanoma!
The trip there took three hours, only because we stopped to eat at "Super Burger", dubbed "the Weber's of the South" by our hosts Craig and Lisa. If you've never heard of either establishment, more's the pity: both are legendary in their parts of the world, and for good reason. We ate like kings in the outsized van-cum-RV which was a perq of Craig's job. What a revelation: this hundred-thousand-dollar mobile nirvana was itself practically a cottage on wheels, packing a fully functional kitchen, a shower, and a well-appointed relaxation alcove, complete with 13" television, into a space scarcely larger (albeit considerably taller) than a full-size pickup.
Upon arrival, we spilled out into what I long since dubbed 'Georgian Air': that clean and cool breeze that first strips you of stress (putting you into deep and restful sleep in the process), then invigorates and refreshes you. I was immediately put in mind of campsites I had occupied as a child: cross a narrow lane, sneak down the path between two lots and find yourself on the beach.
Not the public beach, either: this was up the shore a bit, separated from the May-to-September insanity by a bit of marsh. Absolutely lovely.

The next morning, we went to a Wasaga institution called Donna's Place: a Newfie-themed all-day-breakfast joint that was just packed. Sadly, it's for sale: Donna's apparantly heading back to the Rock. Why, I wondered, do all the really good places disappear?
The rest of our time, after a trip to town, was taken up playing Monopoly, reading, and relaxing in each other's company. A great time was had by all.
Thank you, Lisa, Craig, and Jake, for giving my my yearly infusion of cottage. It'll keep me going awhile.