When I last stepped off Memory Lane, daughter Cathy had just arrived. Here she is on her first day home, still sleeping off the happy event.
But being the active family that we are, we soon strapped Cathy into the Delta 88 and headed back to Avon Rae, our family cottage on Ipperwash Beach in Ontario.
The thrill of a new baby sister didn't diminish Ted and Christy's enthusiasm for sand and surf.
We were sure Cathy was enthusiastic about the beach as well, but being only a week old she expressed most emotions reservedly.
And on the beach.
There was even a little quiet time.
And every so often we would check in on Cathy, who typically was doing this.
Awake. Taking it all in. But not quite sure what all the hoopla was about.
In the midst of all the excitement of introducing Cathy to foreign travel, a strange thing happened. It had never happened before and to my knowledge never happened again. A little background.
At the time, Ipperwash Beach was an old and established neighborhood. Most of the cottages were owned by families that had known each other for generations. Our immediate neighbor to the north was no exception. Her name was Dotty Cavan. She was originally from Georgia and had made it to Ipperwash by way of her husband Jim. As a child Jim had spent summers at Ipperwash Beach with his family to escape the Georgia heat. He continued that tradition all of his life.
Sometime in the 70s after years of renting, Jim and Dotty bought the lot next to Avon Rae and built a cottage. As the lot next door was essentially a large sand dune, the new cottage sat about eight to ten feet higher than ours. And from its elevated deck, one could see directly down into Avon Rae's large screen porch where our family happy hours took place.
Jim passed away in the early 80s, but Dotty continued returning to Ipperwash for the summer months. During that time she would occasionally join us in the lake for our traditional late afternoon family swim (the purpose of which was to work up an adequate thirst for the tradition that followed). And once or twice Dotty actually came down and joined us in our happy hour fun. But mostly she would keep to herself and follow (or perhaps be annoyed by) the rabble rousing on our veranda below.
But this year, Dotty broke with tradition and decided to invite us all up to her cottage for a happy hour. Being a teetotaler, Dotty found herself in new territory. She was perfectly prepared for the social side of happy hour. Pleasant chit chat about the day's events, proper inquiries into the state of everyone's health, and the usual retelling of stories and remembrances from past good times.
She was also ably prepared with snacks and munchies to prime our palates for the fuel that drives happy hour - alcohol. It was regarding this final component - the centerpiece of the ritual - where things went a tad awry. Not experienced in the ways of grapes or hops or distilled spirits, Dotty felt any old form of alcohol would do. Unfortunately, the form she chose was an awful off-brand of - dare I say beer? Tasted like it was brewed in a rusty burn barrel.
But, what could we do? This extremely pleasant old friend had put herself out to accommodate our (to her) strange ways. She'd prepared the venue and the menu and purchased a case of what she thought was a libation suitable for the occasion. So we embraced the situation with smiles, took pleasure in the company, and drank as little as social grace would allow. As we were a bit off our game, there were only a few photos taken. But, they captured the moment.
In this first one, we have Nancy's Aunt Evelyn (normally a gin and tonic drinker) sitting with Nancy's parents Rae and Marge (normally Manhattan drinkers). Note that all three have a glass of brown...uh...stuff.
Here we have Nancy's Uncle Ken (also a gin and tonic drinker) with a glass of the same brown stuff.
Finally, our host Dotty in all of her hosting glory.
If you look closely you'll see that Dotty does not have brown stuff in her glass. I'm pretty sure it's ice water. No flies on Dotty.
Despite the unusual liquid refreshment, we all had a great time at this our one and only happy hour gathering up on Dotty's hill. We drank the stuff without puckering too badly and enjoyed her southern drawl and finely-developed sense of humor. And to this day during our afternoon cocktails we often find ourselves revisiting the story of "Dotty's happy hour".
Now back to Cathy and foreign travel. As the first few weeks of her life unfolded, Cathy adapted nicely to life on the road. She received frequent counseling from an informed source on the virtues of cottage life.
Spent a lot of time contemplating what she'd been told.
And when she needed a little private time, she would let us know.
And while Cathy was napping, Ted and Christy went about their business. Outdoors.
And indoors.
Eventually, Cathy escaped her table cradle and joined the other kids on the sofa for a group photo. Their first.
Before that August visit to Avon Rae was over, we had a couple of birthdays to celebrate. First was Christy's on the 20th, launched with a little presents frenzy.
Here she is modeling her new jacket.
We eventually got to the obligatory baked goods.
And the payoff.
The following day we did it again for Ted, starting with some nifty gifts.
More baked goods, with a few more candles.
It should be noted that there was another guest at both of these parties, appropriately attired and definitely paying attention. And slowly realizing that there's more to life than laps and naps. Just wait until next year.
Exhausted from extensive celebrating, what better way to relax than to head back to the beach for one last day in the sun. Everybody played.
So ended Cathy's introduction to cottage life and Lake Huron. She didn't say much about the experience, but I think she liked it.
Next time, Cathy meets the Canadians. A lot of them. Until then.
Grosse Pointe Charles
