by Peter Horvatin

Created on: September 05, 2010

The Early Days: Lake Cottage Living

     Looking back on early days of vacations in a cabin, there were few, if any, modern conveniences for families to rely on-No indoor plumbing, no hot or cold running water. As a small boy, I recall a rusty, iron hand-pump by the back door of the cabin. This is where we got our water for drinking, cooking, washing up, etc. Also, I remember that long-handled, tin drinking dipper hung precariously on a hook attached to the pump. When we wanted a drink, one of us would man the rusty-looking pump handle and pump, while the other would hold the dipper underneath the spout. There was nothing quite like refreshing, spring water on a sweltering summer day. It was a good taste, but It was an strange mix. The tin dipper filled with cool water touching my lips was almost mystic in the way it cooled my body down.

     Some things just stick with you, I don't know why. My dad had perfected his shaving ritual and was second nature to him, but to me as a young boy like me, it was quite an impressive process. Dad would go out the back door of the cabin with a galvanized pail in hand to pump water from the rusty, battered hand pump. He'd grab the skinny, semi-circular wire handle on the pail, walk into the cabin and heat the water on a beat-up looking gas stove in the munchkin-like cabin kitchen. Then, pouring boiling water into a shallow wash basin, dad carried the basin out and set it on an old, rickety, three-legged stool that was semi-leaning against the towering pine tree, a scant, few steps from the outhouse.

     Dad dunked his stained, yellow shaving cup that a smattering of disgarded soap chips into the steaming water. Scooping out a couple of ounces, he would grab a dark brown handled shaving brush and whip up and ample amount of creamy lather to spread over his bristley bearded face. Carefully, holding his pearl-handled, single edge razor, Dad would peer into the jagged piece of mirror hanging by a slim string on a rusty nail pounded into the pine next to the cabin. The ritual began. Each stroke fo the razor uncovered skin that looked and felt as smooth as a babies behind-no whisker rubs for at least a couple of days.

     For some unknown reason, my watching Dad perform this routinely, mundane task carried great significance for me. It brought peace and comfort to my young heart. I truly can't say why! Maybe, as a wee lad, it was a way fro me to make a connection with my Dad's masculine side.

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