ON SHADOW LAKE with John Bruce and Bona

My uncle’s directions given over the phone were perfect down to every twist and curve in the road, the long winding way through woods, the garbage cans at a crossroads where we were to turn, the sign leading to the cottage. Though we knew the house was on a lake, we had no glimpse of water during the drive, the lake remained invisible—we would only see it once arrived at the house. Down the last little lane, then the woods opened up to show us a grassy parking space and a little pathway leading down to the cottage. We had arrived just about on time. I had said end of afternoon but hadn’t been able to call for my cell phone didn’t work in Canada—and it was just six pm.

As we were getting out of the car I heard the happy and excited voice of my aunt. “They’re here, they’re here!” And then, there was my aunt Bona, already at the screen door of the porch, a slim pale woman in pink shorts, rushing out, followed more slowly by my uncle John Bruce, never a tall man but who as a Presbyterian pastor had always stood straight and proud, now tapping his way out with a cane, legs discolored and swollen, bent over by arthritis to gnome size, and indeed his whole demeanor from his crinkling twinkling eyes to his slightly twisted shape to his happy smile—his face youthful still—was adorably elf like (albeit a grey bearded elf!). I had not seen him, my father’s youngest and last living brother nor my aunt Bona in some 35 years. My father, the second of four boys, had died in April just the year before out in Oregon at the age of ninety. By some prodigious miracle, I had arrived in time to spend my father’s last ten days with him. It had been I who had been the one to call my uncle to tell him of the death of his last brother. Yes, this was a little bit of a pilgrimage; my uncle being my last link to my father’s family.

There were of course the usual hugs, smiles, exclamations, all the cheerful kinds of things one says to one’s family after a long separation, and then my aunt and uncle led us into the cottage, cottage built by Bona’s father in the 1930s and practically unchanged since then, a small rustic green and white wooden house amid a fragrant pine and fir woods. In we traipsed, through the porch (my uncle’s workshop), through the small immaculate kitchen and into the living cluttered with magazines and books (the best kind of clutter), it opening out onto a sun porch all in glass. And there, through the open windows, in all its simple glory, was the lake, a brilliant cool blue jewel in a setting of thick dark woods. The house is constructed on a rocky promontory jutting out into the water, we could hear the slap and flap of water hitting the rocks: the cottage felt like a little boat floating on the lake.

Aunt Bona showed us to our room. There were only two very small bedrooms, one on the woodsy side of the house—hers and my uncle’s (it was Bona’s and her sister’s as little girls, Bona, now 78, has come every year to this cottage since her childhood), and another tiny bedroom on the lake side to be ours for our stay, with view not only of the lake but of a thickly forested little island straight across. Late afternoon sun was pouring in through the window and we gave a mutual sigh of contentment and pleasure as we rolled in our bags. Oh, we were going to like it here!

 Then to take a little tour around the yard. My aunt and uncle have their own little beach, with a rowboat tied up to it. A chair hammock was lying on the ground, not yet up, and I told my uncle we would help him get it up but he said it was broken and he had to take some rope and repair it. I said I thought I was hearing my father talk, and then Bona said, “But will he ever do it?” and I said that now I was hearing my mother talk! That my father had been exactly the same, wanting to do it all himself (but when?!), with Mother just wanting the chore to be done (preferably by someone else on a schedule).

Two wooden armchairs are set out on the western side of the promontory and my aunt and I sink down into them as sunset is approaching, talking of our families, of my grandmother Kitty Duncan (I learn that not only did she name me Nancy Jane by sending embroidered baby blankets and engraved bracelets with that name before my birth, but she also did the same thing with them, sending all kinds of things when Bona was pregnant addressed to Sarah Jane—and so named my cousin too!), talking of the Duncan men, of their famous tempers, of their eccentricities, talking also of my father’s last days. Bona, a nurse, says to me, “He was waiting for you.” She said she has seen many people do that. I told her how my father at one point, though unable to speak anymore, had managed to reach his arms around me and hold me, and my aunt got tears in her eyes and hugged me too. Later, going into the little lakeside bedroom, she told me about her mother. Her parents married at Shadow Lake, and this little room was theirs. And it was to that room that Bona’s mother came to spend the last months of her life. She had breast cancer and died at the age of 48. Bona was only eight years old. There is a picture in the room of the mother in bed there. And I thought, here is where she lived her last moments of life, this was the lake view she saw, at this same little window I’m looking out of now, in this house which is unchanged except that it now has a small deck at the back, water and plumbing. (Before there was only an outhouse. Now there is a very tiny bathroom. The only hitch is that it has two doors, one going into our lakeside bedroom, the other going into the living room. This means that whoever enters the bathroom from whichever room must lock both doors inside if not to be suddenly and embarrassingly surprised by someone else coming in the other door. But must then remember to unlock both doors when leaving so as not to keep anyone from being able to get into the bathroom!)

It happens that our arrival coincided with our marriage anniversary—33 years—and we had brought a bottle of sparkling wine to celebrate both it and our reunion with my aunt and uncle. We sit down at the table in the sunroom, the lake shimmering up at us from below. My uncle gives grace, a most moving one. We all hold hands as he gives thanks not only for the food and drink, but for this visit of his niece and niece’s husband, for our common family, for these good times shared. The sun is just setting over the little island which F and I have already began to call the “island of the dead” after the famous Böcklin painting and which François has already begun to photograph (he will photograph it endless times during our three days at the cottage).

Dinner is a feast—salads and meats and Brown Betty for dessert. Aunt Bona has a number of allergies and eats very little but the rest of us tuck in. My uncle says he has given up all diets. He says that at his age he should be able to eat what he wants—and he does! We open the champagne and toast our family gathering and our anniversary, and the latter leads us to talk of how our two respective couples met. My uncle tells how he met my aunt at college in Canada after he had decided to become a minister, and of how he made the decision to remain in Canada. As he is telling their story, sometimes I hear the voice of oldest Duncan brother, my uncle Carter, other times I hear my grandfather Duncan’s voice, other times I hear my own father’s voice. A deep growly crustiness common to all those Duncan men voices, with a little of my grandmother Duncan’s sing-songing up-and-down-the-scale voice mixed into the brew. My uncle then asks us how we met—and I have to tell the whole tale of our meeting in Calcutta, and François trip up to Katmandu to find me again. They love the story of course!

After we have finished our meal, the sun gone but night not quite descended yet, we see a marvelous sight out on the water: an adult goose followed by four or five little goslings followed by another adult goose, followed by more little ones, with a last adult goose bringing up the rear. Down the lake the procession goes, we watch it until it disappears into the gathering shadows of the night.

We go to sleep with the window wide open and all night long I hear the hooting of an owl and the songs of loons.

The next morning, François and I have breakfast outside sitting in the wooden arm chairs facing the lapping water. My aunt has had to go to town, my uncle hasn’t yet gotten up. I am writing in my journal, François is reading a book. We are very peaceful here. After a little while, I look toward the cottage and see that my little elf uncle has gotten up—he is wearing a purple bathroom, just to his knees. He comes outside to the terrace, and with that voice that is a combination of Uncle Carter, Grandpa Duncan and Dad, calls out to us, “Those chairs will cost you 25 cents an hour.” And then, the hearty Duncan laughter that makes us laugh too!

Later, my uncle wants to take us into the nearby village where they have their main home, their “winter” home. The house is all made of stone and my uncle is very proud of it. Woodstone House was built entirely by a Swiss man in his eighties who had just time to finish it before he died. The home was later sold to John Bruce by the man’s children. This is a much bigger house than the cottage and my uncle wants to show it all to us: the beautiful grounds (a large terrace in the back overlooking a river), the pine wood floors, the big carved table my uncle uses as his desk (covered with papers just like my father’s), the huge collection of books, the beautiful beds, the basement with the tool room (like my father’s tool shop that was in his garage), and to complete the similarity, boxes and boxes of stuff on shelves, papers my uncle intends to go through, just like the boxes of my father’s I’ve spent so many weeks going through myself.

The walls are covered with family pictures, and there are many antiques in the house. I am able to identify almost all of Grandma’s things: the cabinet where she had her china pieces, the Kitty chair in needlepoint, pictures of our ancestors (a couple of which I borrow to copy), lots of her lamps and spool tables. In John Bruce’s bedroom he has drawings and photos of his whole family, all in elegant gold frames: a drawing of my grandmother Kitty, two smaller drawings of himself and Clark as children, photos of Carter and my father as children, and a photo of my grandfather. This collection of drawings and photographs hung in all of Kitty and Gene’s homes. Here on my uncle’s wall is my father’s whole family. And as I am gazing at the pictures, I  think of my uncle, that he is nearly 86 and yet that I knew his parents, knew them well, knew them for many years: they were my grandparents! This makes me not so very young myself. My uncle also has a copy of The Rubaiyat like mine, beautifully framed, like the original. It hangs above a couch in the TV room. The original was bought by my grandfather for my grandmother soon after their marriage in 1912 and that too hung in all their living rooms and finally hung in Kitty’s last dwelling place, a room in Westminister retirement center.

My uncle goes everywhere in the house—just slowly. He doesn’t want to be helped anywhere—he can do it himself. Like Dad. Like Grandma. He has a little motorized elevator which he can sit in and which lifts him to the upper floor where the bedrooms are. He says he now needs one to go down to the basement where he has an office, also with a mess of papers, just like Dad’s. I doubt he will never get through all those papers and those boxes but he believes he will and that is wonderful and who am I to doubt him? He has many projects, household projects, writing projects. Though he’s been retired for many years, life remains very full for him. “I’ve never been bored a minute since my retirement,” he tells me. He chose not to stay in church work (“when one retires, one retires!”) but to concentrate on writing projects, one of which is about death. His theory is that fear of death is the only sin, for it’s that fear that leads to crime—war—cruelty etc. If man would lose his fear of death, believing in an eternal life, much of the world’s woes, he believes, would vanish.

Again that evening, we hold hands while my uncle says grace in his firm strong voice. He gives thanks for the food, for the beautiful day, for his guests, for family being together. Though we are not ourselves grace-sayers, it seems right and natural here and we are again touched by my uncle’s words. Again we have a wonderful dinner (prepared every day by a woman who comes in to help my aunt and uncle), chicken and rice and salads, and to accompany the food, lively and far-ranging conversation. And then, to our collective astonishment, just at dusk, at almost the same time as the night before, we see again the geese and goslings, serenely sailing by us on the lake. And later, the loons and owls begin their evening songs, serenading us through the night. It seems more and more magical here.

Originally we had only planned to stay two days with my aunt and uncle—we have a long drive across the country ahead of us, and many people to see along the way and must be in Oregon by a certain date—but we love Shadow Lake and this little cottage’s occupants so much we decide to stay an extra day. That will also give us a day with my cousin Sarah Jane who lives and works a couple hours away.

Our third day is a little cooler. Bona sleeps in this morning and so I fix breakfast for the two men, toast and cereal and some rice cakes for my uncle. Afterwards, F and I go to sit on the tip of the promontory wearing light sweaters, reading our books. About mid-morning, Sarah arrives and we get up to greet here. She is round and wreathed in smiles and wearing delicious colors, bright red skirt and bright yellow T-shirt She has a sweet smooth face, intelligent eyes. We go inside and Bona makes us tea and we get to know each other—I last saw her as a little girl. Mostly our conversation concerns her two sons and the many problems of custody she has faced since her very difficult divorce. We have lunch of crackers and some wonderful cheese Sarah has brought and white wine, and the talk goes on and on. My aunt and uncle are very affectionate and loving to their daughter, and sympathetic about her problems with her ex-husband and children. Later we drive with my cousin into the nearest village, pick up some more wine, go to the Carpe Diem café for drinks and so that I can check my emails.

When we get back, we see that my uncle is out in the yard down by the lake hanging the hammocks. Darned if he hasn’t found the rope and repaired what needed repairing. He’s now tying back a little tree that is under the hammock so the hammock can swing free.

We have an early dinner of meat loaf with red wine, and then Sarah must leave—she has to get back to her dog and her work (she is a teacher). My uncle goes out into the yard, F is reading in a corner, and I go to wash up the dishes and talk with Bona about how we found our own cottage in southern France (earlier I had shown my uncle and aunt and Sarah pictures of our place). It’s getting dark by then and when the dishes are finished, we realize that my uncle is still outside. As I go back into the living room, I see him come in, pick up a hammer, and start out again. “Why are you going out with a hammer?” I ask him. “Come and see,” he answers. I follow him out. The hammer is for fixing another hammock to a tree. But once that’s taken care of, off goes my uncle again, headed toward the beach, moving like a little sand crab over the knotty earth and tree roots and I hold my breath, afraid he’s going to take a tumble. I follow. A young fellow took the boat out that afternoon to test it, and what my uncle wants to do now is bring the boat closer up on the beach. He apparently intends to do this himself although it’s dark and the boat is heavy! I call to François and get him down to the beach and he gets the boat pulled up (not without effort!) We head back to the cottage, but Uncle John Bruce doesn’t follow. Out we go again, this time to find him half lying in the boat.

“Are you planning to sleep here? Shall I get a blanket?” I ask him. He laughs but doesn’t move to get out. He wants to pull out the plug (in case someone would want to sneak up here at night and steal the boat!!!). So I go into the boat myself and rummage around until I find the plug (not easy) and get it pulled out. My uncle wants to get up from the boat himself and does but then he almost falls once he’s out and I grab him, it’s now dark and the earth is full of tree roots he could stumble over. He lets me guide him up to the stairs, while François gathers up hammer and tool box and takes them in. I feel all the poignancy of my uncle’s situation. I take his arm to help him cross the yard, just as I took my father’s arm up at the cabin the day of his 89^th birthday to help him cross that yard (also full of stumbling block tree roots). Once strong and stalwart men, and proud of it, neither was any longer so steady on his feet, both needing a helping arm, though neither wanted one or wanted to admit they needed one. Both determined to hold onto their autonomy! 

I sit up a long time with my uncle that last evening, listening to him talk of his projects, his philosophy, and responding to his questions about our lives as well. The thing that has struck me in this visit is how interested both my uncle and aunt are in our lives, mine and François’s.  They don't just talk about themselves, they ask questions, and even better, they listen to the answers! They are both so well-informed, so well-read. We’ve had real conversations, we’ve talked about our families, our ancestors, our encounters, our travels, our couples, we’ve talked about writing, about photography, about creating art, about relationships, about being free, about love, about death and finality. We’ve covered the whole width and breadth and length of life in these three days on Shadow Lake. It’s been an intoxicating, a refreshing, a stimulating, and a very loving encounter between myself, my husband, my uncle and my aunt.

We go to sleep again in the little room looking out on Shadow Lake. Once again our dreams are full of the hooting of owls and the oboe sounds of loons, punctuated by the lapping of water against our little promontory. These sounds have been the summer sounds in this cottage since before either of us was born, nothing has changed here except that the people living here have gotten older and older.

But all dreams end, and the morning of our departure inevitably dawns. Sun is already splashed liberally over the lake, its shadows put away for the day. My aunt and uncle are up early for our departure, John Bruce wearing a brown polar suit and red shirt. We have a hearty breakfast, oatmeal, toast, juice, tea, and talk of our plans for the trip, of the adventures up ahead us that we are about to go toward, of our “wonderful life” as my aunt describes it. “You are free,” she says. “Have you been everywhere? How do you decide where to go?”

Well, no, not everywhere, we laugh. Lots of places, but not everywhere. But now, at last, we’ve been to Shadow Lake!

Then we must make our farewells and they are not easy to make. We walk out the porch, into the shady yard near our car. My aunt Bona hugs me, tears in her eyes. “I just love you,” she whispers. “I love you too, Aunt Bona,” I whisper back.

As for my uncle, he’s been saying all morning, “I don’t want you to go!” Oh Uncle Bruce, oh Aunt Bona, I don’t want to go either. And when I say I don’t want to go, my uncle says very simply, “so don’t go!”

I hug him again, this last and very precious uncle of mine, and I feel like saying to him, “Don’t you go either, Uncle John Bruce, not ever!”

Earlier, sometime soon after we had arrived at my uncle and aunt’s cottage, I asked them if they had ever seen the movie On Golden Pond with Katherine Hepburn and Henry Fonda as an old long-married couple arriving for a stay at their cottage on their lake! With songs of loons at night as well! How many times I’ve thought of that film these three days, of crusty yet tender-hearted Henry Fonda as my crusty and tender-hearted uncle, of patient calm matter-of-fact loving Katherine Hepburn as my loving aunt.

“Oh yes,” they both laughed. “We’ve seen it lots of times!” And Aunt Bona went on to say that Norman (Henry Fonda) starting the boat backwards was exactly John Bruce!

We had just spent three very special days on Shadow Lake, and now it was about to become memory. We got in the car, smiling and waving to my aunt and uncle. Life is marked on both their faces—as time marks trees with its concentric circles—but the image I take back of the two of them is of amazing and resilient youth and vigor. And of an intense and unwavering love of existence. They may not have traveled the world (my uncle explained to me one evening that he’s not much of a traveler, he prefers to be an armchair voyager) but they’ve traveled existence with its sorrows and its joys, still together, still waking up every morning to the glories of the world and appreciating them. The geese sliding down along the still waters of Shadow Lake. The haunting music of loons. Meals in the heart of nature’s beauty. The solace of literature—books, oh the solace of books! Their love and admiration for their daughters. Their devotion to their respective pasts, to their parents, their grandparents, to the linage that led to them and to their family. And their wonderful curiosity still about everything, still seekers after knowledge. My uncle, eighty-six this August 2012 planning his treatise on death to explain the mystery of evil in this world.

When God—or whoever or whatever—created human beings, the brilliant stroke was to give each of us memory. Here’s another subject for you, Uncle, human memory! Get your teeth into that one. So although François and I drove away from Beau Soleil cottage (Beautiful Sun) and its echo, Shadow Lake, not knowing if or whether we will get to return, yet—because of the mysterious and unfathomable nature of memory—we took the lake and the little green and white wooden cottage with us, and we took Uncle and Aunt as well, the two of them safely tucked forever into their little lakeside paradise.