Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

November 4:  After a very quiet end-of-summer, my good friend Kate and I closed the cottage during the week ahead of Thanksgiving.  While the weather was still very good, and I managed to get in the lake for a short while every day, I knew that it wouldn’t be long before the weather turned cold and wet.

So we left the old girl boarded up for the winter, late on a sunny, cool afternoon. I could almost hear her drawing a resigned breath as we left in the boat, gathering strength for what she knew would be a long, cold and lonely time. I imagine her watching as we went north, and then around the point, out of sight. Alone again, as she was for so long before I came along.

We’ve grown together over the last 4 years, she and I. She’s stronger now, protected by a new roof, some new windows, wiring and plumbing. A good cleaning out has removed a small mountain of junk that undoubtedly made her feel overburdened, and some new furniture (well, new to her anyway) might help her feel younger again. With her help, I’ve realized a dream that I have held for a very long time: returning an older, deteriorating building to a useful and happy life.

In doing that, I’ve developed some marginal skills with power tools, and gained assurance that I can accomplish many things that I had previously only imagined. This came with the help of builder-mate Roy, Kate, and others, who would pitch in to help “move the sticks” on another project. She and I owe them all a debt of gratitude.

As we wait for next year, I often imagine her standing alone on her little island, her back to the wind and rain, gathering herself for the winter snows.  She’s done this for more than a hundred years, so perhaps she’s used to it by now; I don’t think I will ever really enjoy winter, and perhaps she doesn’t either. Whatever the case, I’m already looking forward to the early weeks of May when I can return to her.  Throwing the back door open and calling out “Hello cottage” once again. I can almost imagine hearing her exhale slightly as she realizes that the long winter break has past and warmer, happier days lie ahead.

Will I hear a small distant voice say “Hello David” in reply ? It wouldn’t surprise me for a moment.

August 8:  In my mind, I’m 12 years old. My family is at Dyke’s Cottages near Port Carling for their annual vacation. Having waited the mandatory hour after eating lunch, we’ve been released to head down to the dock for the afternoon swim. Out the front door, letting the screen door slam behind us, my sister and I run down the dirt path to the dock at full speed. The dirt is hard-packed and there are no stones to bruise your feet.  Passing in front of the neighbouring cottage, the path begins to fall away toward the dock.  At this point, there’s a choice: slow down and use some large stepping stones in the main path to go down the hill, or, jump over the stones – using a deft dab of the left foot on an adjacent outcropping to redirect your trajectory – down to the dock. I go high, flying through the air to land near the dock.

My towel is tossed on a chair, and I run off the end of the dock at top speed, windmilling arms and legs for extra distance. The force of hitting the water often gives me a nose-full, but that’s just part of the deal. (As I got older I would realize that water skiing was often fun for the same reason: a huge crash without injury or embarrassment just added to the fun and yielded another story that got more dramatic with each telling.)

It’s easy to say that this ritual is memorable because it reminds me of the fun I had as a kid. That’s partly true, but I think it would be more accurate to say that it represents the freedom to behave in a childish way without consequences. We grew up with rules. Rules for talking or not talking. who to talk to, how to behave, how to dress. Until I was 18 I was required to be home when the streetlights came on, and couldn’t go out on Sunday unless we went to church in the morning.*  Summer was a time when most of those rules were temporarily suspended.

I thought about those times at Dykes as my grandchildren jumped off the dock here at Regatta Island. It was pretty much a procession of one after the other for most of the afternoon: up the ladder (watching out for the dreaded dock spiders); running down the dock toward the (slightly) deeper water, and launch off the dock. Repeat until exhaustion inevitably sets in.

I don’t recall my Grandfathers ever swimming, much less taking a flying leap off the dock into the lake, and that’s such a pity. As a generation, I’m happy that we are more relaxed about these things and actually spend time in the lake with the kids. And I’m very grateful that I have been able to give them the opportunity to experience relatively rules-free “cottage life” in some way during the short time they were here. (Perhaps predictably, their visit was cut short by a massive storm that took down a couple of small trees, and cut off all power to Regatta and the neighbouring islands for two-and-a-half days.)

I’m hopeful that at some point in the future we will fondly remember the time spent together at Regatta much as I remember the times my family spent at Dykes. There was nothing particularly outstanding about the place itself, but the freedom and fun it represented has stayed with me – in my memory – for more than 5 decades.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to run down the path and jump in the lake.  Just for old times sake.

* * * * *

* In a twist to the “Sunday church rule”, we didn’t have to stay indoors if the family “overslept” and couldn’t make the 11 o’clock service. Many times, my sister and I would lie awake, still and silent in bed until after 10 to avoid going.  And, I’m sure,  many is the time Mum would do the same.

July 25:  This day has been inevitable, barring a significant lottery win,  since I bought Regatta Island in 2021. The plan was to use the 5 year term of the mortgage to do as much renovation work as possible, and evaluate my options in 2026. There was always the realization that the financing was not in my favour, and at my age (ahem) a certain need for relative security arises.  There are limitations to my finances and the overall economic situation is becoming somewhat unpredictable for the next couple of years. So I have decided to list the cottage for sale a year earlier than anticipated.

This has raised a number of emotions, some of which were unexpected. Initially I tried to see the process as a “business transaction” that would reduce my debt load and provide financial resources going forward. While all of that makes sense, the idea of parting with Regatta is more emotionally difficult than I had anticipated. It’s not surprising that this should be the case; builder-mate Roy and I have each invested a lot of time doing the work resolving as many problems as possible.  There is a connection to the building that can’t be easily be dismissed, and having gotten the old girl this far, it’s hard to turn her future over to someone else, and realize that I will not be part of her story going forward.

That said, I am proud of what we have accomplished. When I took possession of Regatta it was awash in junk and old furniture. There was a squirrel living inside, sleeping in the mattresses and stashing tons of acorns around the interior. (I occasionally still find some.) The roof leaked and the plumbing system was pretty much non-existent. After 4 years, I now have a viable and comfortable cottage: a new roof; new septic; new kitchen and bath with new plumbing; new decks…. We have brought the cottage back from a point where it might have fallen apart if left another couple of years, and have returned it to a state where a new family can enjoy it and do some more work to make it truly “theirs”.

All of the work came at the cost of spending many weeks on the island working, rather than enjoying the place as “a cottage”.  It was, in many ways, a work site, especially during the first couple of years when major projects like building the new kitchen were underway. It was not a place to lie in the sun and drink pina coladas. At some times it was easy to resent having to spend a beautiful day crawling around in the rotting leaves and detritus under the cottage trying to fix the floor. I missed many events in the city that I would have preferred to attend because I was “at the cottage”. In this small way, selling the cottage brings the possibility of having more time to do some things I have missed for the last four years.

But against that small bright spot, there is the sadness in knowing that I won’t be part of the Regatta Island story as it goes forward.  My hope is that the new owner will see the value in a 112 year old cottage and will respect that provenance in the work they do. It would be a horror story for me if the new owner decides to renovate or demolish the existing building and use the footprint as the basis for a new McCottage. I could never forgive myself for letting her go, even though I completely understand that I have no say in what the new people will do.

In the meantime, showings are being arranged;  people are coming and going.  After 3 months of hard work getting her ready for sale, I am trying to take some time to simply enjoy the place “as a cottage” before we have to part ways. These are bittersweet days, and I am trying to be as positive as can be, before the inevitable day comes to say goodbye for good.

For sale: 1000 REGATTA ISLAND W, Bracebridge (Monck (Bracebridge)), Ontario P1L1W8 – X12302269 | REALTOR.ca

May 5: After record snowfalls in central Ontario and elsewhere, Winter ended with a sucker punch of wind and ice that devastated large parts of the Province. Many homes were left without power for several days, and clean-up continues for many.  There will be more work to be done as seasonal residents like myself return to their summer homes and discover the extent of damage.

To put it mildly, Spring has seemed somewhat reluctant this year. Some warmer days have yielded to stretches of colder and wetter periods that feel like late March rather than early May. But Mother Nature is a persistent old lady and in time, her usual patterns will win out.

I have been waiting for that eventuality while the temperatures remain close to zero overnight on Regatta Island.  Call me an old, soft city-slicker but the possibility of an overnight stay in a wooden cottage with no insulation or central heat has little appeal.

Still, it is only a matter of time before the rain and cold release their grip. There are signs – like the magnolia at the bottom of my street – that Spring can’t be that far off. So I suggest digging the shorts out from the bottom of the drawer, and putting the rose wine on ice, just to be ready.  In the meantime, keep the umbrella handy.

 

 March 25: There is little doubt that Canada currently faces a crisis which has the potential to significantly change the character of our country.  In the face of unprecedented interference from US President Trump, the way in which our governments react will will dictate the nature of our country for decades to come.

As Paul Romer, a Stanford economist and co-recipient of the Nobel Prize in Economics in 2018 said: “A crisis is a terrible thing to waste.” We now have an opportunity – disguised as a crisis –  to fundamentally reimagine our country. We need to break away from many of the current orthodoxies and long-standing impediments that have stood in our way. We can make a better Canada, if we choose to do so.

What we can’t do, is carry on “business as usual.” As one of our politicians has described it: “We must break down interprovincial trade barriers, open internal markets, lower taxes, reduce subsidies, thin regulation, get our resources out of the ground, build export-oriented infrastructure, and make it a national mission to diversify our external markets.” Stephen Harper was expounding on the “neo-liberal” strategy that he implemented almost a decade ago and which has left us in our current state.  The fact that the Trudeau years did so little to alter this approach to economic strategy shows the stasis of political thinking in our country, and the deep-seated lack of desire to alter course.

It’s therefore deeply disappointing to me that both Carney and Poilievre have been quick out of the gate promising tax cuts of different magnitudes and for different constituencies. Reducing taxes generates less revenue for the government to allocate to its programs and priorities. With less revenue to go around, many of our fundamental institutions, like hospitals, the military and universities, have become and will continue to be inadequately funded because the government has cut funding to “balance the books”. They are therefore deteriorating at an alarming rate. Current tax policy has created a society where the most economically well-off are getting richer, and the poor are falling further behind. The so-called “middle class” has essentially disappeared.  Allowing industry greater control over the regulatory system has meant greater corporate profit, continued threats to the environment and the risk of continued loss of decent well-paid jobs to overseas competition. It’s early days in our Federal election and I am hopeful that there will be more thoughtful policies from both parties.  I also hope that our political class will return to the idea of being “statesmen” and actually work together to make the country a better place, rather than simply looking to score points toward the next public opinion poll.

There are opportunities now to consider how we trade with other countries around the globe. We can no longer rely on the American market as the country has become unreliable at best, and an enemy at worst.  We need to consider global security and assume a more proactive role in securing our own borders – particularly in the arctic – with a stronger and more modern military presence. We should take the step that tripped Justin Trudeau and eliminate the “first past the post” electoral process  and adopt a proportional election system for future elections. And while we are at it, let’s re-write our tax structure so that everyone pays a fair share, and there are fewer special interest groups hived off into lower or preferential tax brackets.

Now is not the time for half-hearted measures. We have seemingly come together in the face of an existential threat. Whatever we do next, let’s be bold.  Our response – expressed most immediately through our electoral process – demands nothing less.

Globe editorial: What this campaign is missing: a real vision for a new Canada – The Globe and Mail 

Opinion: Canada’s existential election has very quickly become unserious – The Globe and Mail

March 14:  The Liberal party has recently elected Mark Carney as their new leader; he will become the next Prime Minister of our country. I’m hopeful that he will bring a new perspective to the office, and reorient our thinking about the way in which our country behaves. It can’t come a moment too soon.

U.S. President Trump is continuing to attack Canada (and others) through tariffs and other tactics (notably simply opening his mouth) designed to demean and belittle us. He has stated his desire to annex Canada as a 51st state. There is a constant stream of idiocy and threats, and, although I do my best to avoid paying much attention, it is a constant buzz in the background of our days. Trump’s threats and his disruption of the world order (such as it was) elevates his lunatic ranting beyond the point of things we can easily ignore.  There are real threats and real outcomes that will be unpleasant if we don’t deal with them appropriately.

It is fascinating and encouraging to me that Canadians have responded to the challenge quickly and with creativity. There seems to be a resurgence in national pride (an emotion few “real” Canadians would acknowledge) and a desire to seize this opportunity to make things better for our country. Will our leaders – and our new Prime Minister in particular – be up to the challenge we face ?

As Canadians we have lived with mediocrity for far too long. At the Federal level, both major parties have platforms that are remarkably similar.  Instead of looking for new and creative ways to improve the country, they focus on identity politics and scoring meaningless points at the expense of actually “doing something”. Action, when it comes, is more often than not, to protect or give advantage to privileged members of the business elite or society, rather than making meaningful changes for the benefit of the majority of Canadians. ( How long have we been dealing with “the housing crisis” without apparent affect ? ) Our disillusionment is apparent in voter turn out which has declined from almost 80% of electors in the late 70’s, to 62% in the 2021 election. We can’t be bothered anymore ….

My hope is that Mark Carney can break this cycle and make meaningful changes: Let’s get rid of internal trade barriers; let’s get started on national programs to support new infrastructure and housing opportunities; let’s re-write the tax code so that everyone pays a fair share toward the common good; let’s spend meaningful money on our own military and on reaching out to support other nations that need our help; and let’s change the electoral process from “first past the post” to proportional representation so that we get a government that actually represents voters’ wishes.

There was a time in our collective memory when Canada “punched above its’ weight” and made important contributions around the world.  Through neglect and atrophy, those skills have been diminished or lost entirely and we are impoverished as a result. Many nations have taken to simply ignoring us. These things can change and it appears to me that Canadians are ready, willing and able to make those changes.  My fear is that the current political culture (at all levels) is such that the old, white guys currently in charge will continue to spend time worrying about covering their asses and drop the ball on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to re-write Canadian history. Sadly, it may be that Mark Carney is one of those guys. I hope that I am proven wrong.

January 31: As the calendar rolls over into the new year, I am usually fairly optimistic about the times that lie ahead.  Some years, I have been less enthusiastic than others, due largely to a downturn in my mood over the preceding Christmas and holiday season. This year the holiday went fairly well, so I welcomed 2025 with an open mind.

Unfortunately, shortly after the new year was underway, Trump assumed the Presidency in the US and things went to hell in a hand cart. This was not unexpected as he had been messaging his intentions from the date the election was called. Still, there was the (obviously misguided) hope that he would somehow see the folly of his intentions, and that his chaotic style would then change. As I write, we are awaiting word on whether there will be a round of tariffs, and if so, what will be covered.

There is nothing I can do about this, other than to remain in my seat with the lap belt loosely fastened across my lap. What is troubling to me is the constant din of stupidity coming (for the most part) from south of the border which demands attention, if only to determine whether there is actually something happening that is of concern. Many people I know are completely over-stressed  because they pay close attention to this stream of nonsense and imagine possible disastrous outcomes. Please my friends; take a deep breath.

Later in the month, we learned that my very good friend Ian’s younger brother Don had died in hospital after a lengthy illness. Although Ian had told me that he was not well, the news was sad and unsettling. All of my little gang of friends has lost parents and while that is difficult,  it is a life passage that we have come to expect.  The death of our own generation has somehow been postponed indefinitely as our lives roll along from day to day.  Don’s death was a reminder that we may not have all the time we think we have.

And that is likely not long at all.  This year, we all turn 75. The average life expectancy in Canada is 83 (19th in the world), so less than 10 years remain if you believe in the (use and abuse of ) statistics. I like to think that I am fairly involved in my life. I have hobbies that, admittedly, come and go from time to time. I am volunteering and taking classes to expand my range of interests and skills.  I am trying half-heartedly to stay in reasonably good shape. Some of my friends are doing the same, yet many seem content to go from day to day without any significant plans, or any intention to seek out and enjoy life goals that have been waiting for years to be realized.  At some point, they will simply be too old and enfeebled to actually do those things they imagined but did not pursue, and that makes me sad and a bit disappointed for them.

Yet I know that there’s nothing I can do to change the course of history yet to come, or to force those around me to take a shot at something new. They have their life; I have mine. The events that I encountered this month have left me slightly discouraged. In the end, there is one month down and eleven to go. Let’s keep our eyes on the horizon….

January 15: I have avoided writing this piece for some time because, frankly, it’s painful to consider. But I’ve come to understand that I need to reflect on what happened and what it means for me, and possibly, for you.

It was a warm and pleasant day in December, and I had decided to go shopping at St. Clair and Yonge.  That accomplished, I was heading north on Yonge, admiring the store fronts and life on the street.  I was not really paying attention to my surroundings but heard a thump that I soon realized was a man who had fallen on the sidewalk. He was lying a short distance ahead of me next to a tree planter.

As I got closer, I could see that he was moving slightly.  He was dressed in bulky dark clothing that was too warm for the weather. Given his clothing,  his positioning and behaviors, I put two and two together and concluded that this was a street person who was likely drunk and had fallen off his perch on the tree planter. I got closer and determined that he was awake, he was breathing, and he was apparently quite intoxicated.

And then I left him lying there and walked on.

I looked up to see a man standing on the sidewalk talking on his cell phone. He was looking south past me to where the man lay on then sidewalk.  He seemed quite anxious.  Within a couple of minutes, two police cars arrived with full lights and sirens. The officers approached the man with the phone and then headed south to deal with the fallen man. I didn’t wait around to see what transpired.

On thinking about this scene some more, I was shocked at my behaviour. I began thinking about my reaction to the man on the ground. After a very cursory examination, I had determined that he was “a street person”, a drunk, and I left him to fend for himself. For some reason I walked on when I should have stopped and made sure that he got the help he needed. If it was an 80-year-old woman lying on the ground, there would have been no debate about what I would have done. The police would not have been called.

I believe that I have compassion and understanding for those who are less fortunate than me. I spend time as a volunteer at Out of the Cold, and I am comfortable being around most of the street people there. It should have been ingrained in my character to help this person, and yet, I walked on.

The man with the cell phone did deal with it, and yet he clearly felt so concerned about the situation that he called the police. The intoxicated man was so dangerous that he needed to be dealt with by force.

On reflection, perhaps these differing responses represent our societal reaction to the homeless. On the one hand, there’s the feeling that the homeless will somehow look after themselves. Sure, they are injured and sick, but they deserve what they got and should be left to fend for themselves. At the other extreme is the view that they are dangerous and threatening enough that a police response is needed.

I believe that there is an urgent need to deal with those less fortunate than ourselves as they struggle with homelessness, addictions and mental health challenges. These are real people with real lives who have fallen on hard times not of their choosing. There is a real financial cost to society in ignoring their needs, and an impact our collective psyche as we navigate homeless encampments and needles in the gutters of our streets.

Many of us have come to believe that those left behind are of little consequence and somehow deserve their life. Every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. We have become hardened to the fate of those on the margins: the homeless, the mental health survivors, the addicted. Yet they are among us and deserve compassion and support as they struggle mightily through their day.

We can no longer afford to ignore the problem and simply walk on.

 

November 11:  I went to the RCAF memorial service in Mount Pleasant Cemetery this morning. Eighty years ago today, my Father was a Navigator in a Halifax bomber flying a radar training mission over southern England. He had arrived in England after months of training that began in June 1943. Based at Malton (now Pearson Airport), they flew more than 100 hours of day and night missions before being stationed at Bishop’s Court in Northern Ireland. In May, 1944, he began flying with his permanent crew in Worcestershire, and then later near York. By the end of training in September he had amassed 172 hours of daylight flying, and 125 hours of nighttime missions.

Active duty began October 1, 1944 with various practice drills before the first OP’s to Dortmund on October 5. After the relative safety of practice drills and training, it must have been terrifying for everyone to now be on active duty with someone trying diligently to kill you. He mentioned taking flak a couple of times, but I don’t believe that there was ever a really serious incident for him that one would call “life-threatening”. That is, of course, relative.

Before November 11, he had flown 13 missions over Germany and that later continued with flights to Dusseldorf, Oberhausen and Castrop Rauxal (October 21). On this last mission, the plane lost an engine and the Pilot (F/O Sefton) knew that they were not going to make it back to base. The plane was over England, near Leeming, and crash landed in a farm field. Dad said that he and another crew were in the middle of the plane – between the wings being the strongest part of the frame – when they felt a fairly strong impact. Thinking they were on the ground, they relaxed a bit and waited for the plane to stop, but it continued for some time before there was a much stronger impact and the tail of the plane disappeared. Thinking of the fuel tanks and the possibility of an explosion, Dad and his mate took off out the back of the plane and across the field only to later realize that the first impact had been with two trees that had taken both wings – and the fuel tanks – off the plane. The bomb aimer was killed; (he essentially sat next to the Navigator position in the nose of the aircraft), the remainder of the crew had minor injuries.

He also spoke of waiting in line to take off on a night mission. The first aircraft in line would be given a green light, signifying that it was clear to take off. When they had cleared the field, the next in line would be given the green and off you would go.  On this particular night, one of the aircraft ahead of Dad’s plane had attempted takeoff and collided with trees near the end of the runway. There was a massive explosion (being fully fueled and loaded with bombs), and then a brief pause before the next plane was given the green light.

His time in the Halifax ended in March 1945 when he had flown 33 missions and more than 210 hours aloft. He never spoke much about his time overseas. By 1955, ten years later, he had studied to become a Chartered Accountant, had his first child (me), bought their first house and done some renovations, had their second child (my sister Nancy), started his own business and moved up to their second home.

During this time, as far as I know,  there was never any offer of support or therapy for the trauma of the war that these men endured. Welcome home. Be thankful you survived. Get on with it. Therapy, such as it was, turned out to be “playing cards” at the RCAF mess on Avenue Road. In another ten years, Dad would be an alcoholic. It’s impossible to know what role the war played in his disease. While he never pointed to it as a cause,  it’s not hard to imagine that there was some involvement.

Thankfully, he was sober for the last 40 years of his life. He became the man I loved dearly. On days like today, when we remember the lives of those lost, I reflect on that good fortune and think of the thousands who are not so blessed.

August 20:  July 16 was an important date for me. It was, in many ways, the midpoint of the 2024 cottage season. It was also the anniversary of the day I signed the offer to purchase Regatta Island in 2021, and the mid-point of the 5 year term of the mortgage I took I took to buy the island. When I did that, I had a “5-year plan” to work on the cottage and make it over in my own taste: take the old girl and bring her back to a comfortable and enjoyable place to spend the summer.

To that end, worker-mate and good friend Roy and I have added new decks,  and built a new kitchen and bathroom. We have also finished dozens of other smaller projects, and new plumbing, wiring, septic and roof have been completed by contractors. I was thinking of all the progress that had been made on July 16 when I started to consider how the next half of the 5-year plan might unfold. To be clear: my intention is to try to return the cottage to its’ glory days of several decades ago. The restoration and hard work are key reasons that I dream of the island, and two things I enjoy most about being here.

Then I turned to the question of finances and my long-term financial security, and things became troubling. While most of my financial assets are tied up in the cottage. this was never a project intended to make a small fortune* in the real estate market. As the work has progressed, those assets have diminished to the point where I have had to confront the idea that, as my expenses continue to mount, I may not be able to complete all of the work I have in mind, or indeed, be able to continue to own the island for more than another 3 or 4 years. At that point, the money runs out and literally everything would be invested in Regatta Island.

Confronted with the fact that I will have to sell the cottage sooner than I anticipated, it seemed prudent to put a plan in place to finish up some more small jobs and see if the market for cottages has returned. Sales this year are virtually non-existent (except, apparently in the $5+ million range where sales continue), so I am working toward a possible decision next Spring.

Suddenly the cottage no longer feels like mine. As I walk from room to room I still see images of how I would like to finish the place, but I have to realize that I will not be the guy to do it. Someone else will have the joy of bringing Regatta fully back to life

• An old witticism, attributed to various people, posits that the surest way to make a small fortune is to start with a large one.