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November 26, 2009

The other day, a friend posted this story, about the cottages of her childhood. My family didn’t own one, opting for grueling road trips and backseat fist-fights over serenity, creaky floorboards and ants in the toaster. But, plenty of people we knew had places in Muskoka, Southampton and Haliburton, and we often spent a few long weekends each season, offering up our limbs to feasting mosquitoes, roasting marshmallows and deliberately setting them alight, and debating whether it was better to score the top bunk situated at eye-level to the taxidermied moose head, or the bottom one which, although definitely less exciting was free from glass eyeballs staring you down through the darkness.

Since reading K.’s post, I keep hearing one of her sentences in my head: “observing the beaver dam”. Something about it resonates, and invokes pretty much the most peaceful, laidback, kid-like and cottagey mood I can imagine. Like a little mantra, something to repeat while tucked inside my three office cubicle walls.

Observing the beaver dam.

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