May 24th Discombobulated Me

Sometimes a great big old word is just fine. Today my word is "discombobulated". The word slips perfectly into the day.

This is the 24th of May Long Weekend, Queen Victoria's Birthday, Fire Cracker Day, although fire crackers are now mainly saved for July 1st, Canada's Birthday. For many of the younger sort or those younger at heart, it is the 2-4 weekend. Beer comes in cases of 24. I am not sure Queen Victoria would be amused, but that doesn't really matter as she has lost all control of the Day. I know my grandmother would not be amused.

          The 24th of May
          The Queen's birthday
          If they don't give us
          A holiday
          We'll all run away.

When I was a kid, that rhyme is as close to public insurrection as we ever got.

This is the weekend the summer cottages are opened up, the mosquitoes wait for with anticipation, the black flies swarm and the Big Rock, the touchstone of generations is lovingly checked out.

It is also the weekend the canoe is put in the water, mattresses are lugged from one family cottage to another, mothballs are put back into lidded cans, the shutters are removed and all the windows are opened. Fires are lit in the stone fireplaces to take off the damp.

There is always some addled soul who puts on a swimsuit and dives into the frigid water, emerging an interesting bright pink and mottled purple hue. The dipper is usually immensely proud to be the first in, but the older and wiser look on with disdain at the ways of their youth.

Women fuss in the kitchen searching out the leavings of mice and washing the dishes that were carefully washed the last weekend up. Sandwiches are shoved into waiting hands along with glasses of somewhat warm milk. There won't be a proper meal until dinner, when the kitchen is done.

After dinner the men go down to the beach with shovels to prepare for the firework display. Someone is off to a car trunk to return with the awe inspiring box of fire works. The older ones go through the contents one by one , making the inevitable jokes. Before long a bonfire is going and the kids are sent to the willow tree to get sticks for everyone, to roast marshmallows.

The sun sets, the stars turn on at their brightest. The women emerge from the cottages with ground sheets and wool blankets for all. Fireworks go off along the shore. The excitement mounts. Life doesn't get much better than this.

There is always a great aunt or a grandmother, whose joy of this time honoured tradition can't be contained. From the lighting of The Burning School House, through the Twelve Ball Roman Candle, Owl Screech, Baker's Dozen, Devil's Glare, Egyptian Volcano to the closing extravaganza she can be counted on to squeal with delight, making it clear to the children the ability to have fun doesn't disappear with age.

For a moment all is dark, except for the stars and the light of the fire.

Out come the sparklers, the expensive long ones. All dance through the uncut grass with  brazenly bright, dazzling danger. For a time the land beside the lake returns to a long ago fairy land.

Then it is off to bed for everyone, except the few who stay behind to tidy up.

This world has now gone forever. That great big city has swallowed up such places to build monster homes. The cottages that were ordered from Eaton's Catalogue and put together by their crew over one hundred years ago, are bulldozed away, the land is levelled, the grass is covered with paving stones. Only the Big Rock remains, forever defiant.

I live the simplicity of the cottage, all year long. The cottage furniture came with me, when I moved and with it came so many memories. New memories are being made, but on this particular weekend I particularly miss the people and the place of another time.

I am discombobulated.