Road Trip

Over the years, the cottage my father helped his father build 30 years ago has deteriorated sharply, not unlike its owner, and we’re really not sure what to expect. As my father, aunt and I sit in the car on our way, listening to the faint Senegalese music of Baaba Maal waft out of the speakers, he barely says a word. I’m so used to the mile a minute banter that he used to keep up that I find it necessary to start talking in his place.

When we finally get there, two and a half hours later, he says something like “I’m going to go in and see how it looks, just wait here,” as my aunt and I look at each other apprehensively on the road. There is so much snow around, in front and on top of the house, an entire lifetime worth of snow it seems, that simply getting to the house is no easy task for my for no longer so spry father. When he finally does, and turns the key in the door, it sticks and he has to push on it a few times. The wooden frame has swollen around the door. Suddenly it gives and he disappears into the house.

Its quiet for what seems like an eternity, probably more like ten minutes, when he finally emerges looking crestfallen. “It’s going to need a lot of work,” he says, “and watch your step.” I crawl over the snow banks leading to the house first and then turn my gaze to my aunt who quickly sinks into the snow and loses her boot.

This is the first of many times that this happens.

She good-naturedly interprets it as a sign that it’s time to go on a diet. By the time she gets to the front door she is crawling on her hands and knees, bootless and sockless, and laughing hysterically. This breaks the tension and somewhat prepares us for the scene we are about to witness.

***

The house is a mess. Like... unbelievable.  Every room is literally upside down and everything is on the floor. Every dish is dirty, a lot of them are covered in mould, and they’re strewn throughout the kitchen which for some reason no longer has a floor. Also gone is the fridge. In its place lie a pile of tools and metal scraps. The counter seems to have been ripped out of the wall as well.

There are two huge saws hanging ominously on the wall in the washroom. The living room seems to be serving the sole purpose of housing part of my father’s extensive National Geographic collection (almost as extensive as his Playboy collection) as well as the couch, which no longer has legs and is turned over on its side.

My old bedroom seems to have a leak, or something, as there is a huge puddle of water by the bed. More magazines, as well as books, papers and newspaper clippings, riddle the floor along with old photos, clothes and heavy machinery. Right.

The front room is full of shovels, hammers and clubs, a weaponry of sorts.

“Mr. Péquin must have come in here with a hose and let it run. I noticed some chairs outside that looked like they had been thrown. He probably did that too,” says my father about the neighbour, a long time enemy.

My aunt and I look at each other silently asking the same question “Who’s responsible for the rest of this?”       

  

My father goes on the roof to start shovelling snow as my aunt and I decide on the best way to set about cleaning the house. We have no cleaning products, not even a sponge, but find some old paper towels and decide to boil some snow, for water.

“I have to go to the bathroom, don’t go outside,” says my aunt with a wink after a while. When she comes back in, she’s surprised at how nice the kitchen looks. “Wow, great job!”

When my dad returns from the roof a few hours later the house is looking much better. We eat dinner, a delicious meal of bread, smoked salmon and cheese with tomatoes and grapes, and talk about where to spend the night. We had planned on sleeping at the cottage but it’s still so dirty, and damp, that none of us have the heart for it. In the end, we decide to spend the night at my aunt’s cottage nearby.

We pack our bags, lock up and climb over the snow back to the car. For good measure, my aunt falls through the snow a few more times.

She isn’t laughing anymore.

***

In the car, I notice some tears in my dad’s eyes. “What’s wrong with you?” I ask not-so-nicely, “are you cold or crying or what?” I had only seen him cry twice before, once when his father died and then one other time after that. “Both, I guess,” he says. “I can’t believe I let that happen, I let a lot of things go, I guess.” 

When we get to my aunt’s cottage, I climb through the basement window and then run upstairs to let them in. On the way to the front door, my dad slips and falls on some ice. I hear him yell loudly in Polish. He spends the rest of the night complaining about the pain in his neck (his neck???) while my aunt and I try and cheer him up.

“I’m in pain,” he says for the millionth time. “You know what would make me feel better?”

And then he answers his own question.

***  I have always wanted to publish a short story or work of fiction. I decided to do it on my own blog just because I can.