The Year of the Canadian Gator

    The gator rode silently with us all the way to Ontario that year—Dad at the wheel of his Bonneville convertible, stopping only when the muttering about a restroom reached the point of incessant growling and angry snaps. The fishing boat and its rattling trailer followed obediently behind, announcing each bump with a crashing clatter.

    Purchasing this car meant that Mom and Dad would have driven off, after long deliberation, to Downtown Pontiac to “talk up” Bernie, their car dealer/friend/customer. Our parents owned a TV repair shop that serviced a large area of the South Hills of Pittsburgh and provided them many such contacts. Dad would always insist on getting the latest Bonneville. Mom would equally press for a convertible, although she only seemed to achieve that goal with every other car. The top would seldom be lowered, but she would have had at least an occasional win.

    I found the luxury of a convertible in the sling/hammock that was usually reserved for storage of the top when it was in not in use. It was, instead, the perfect place for a child my size to snooze as we made our way along the 600 miles of winding highway, anxiously watching for the King’s Highway signs that announced our entry into Canada. My brother, Jack, seven years older than I, would stretch out luxuriously across the width of the back seat, happily enjoying the cool wind from the rolled-down windows as it whipped over the front seats and vibrated our ears.

    Up in my perch, I would watch the cloud formations, musing over what their next mutation might be. Cloudy days were best, as the sun would turn my improvised cot into a sweaty coffin in short time. When this occurred I would quickly clamber down to the back seat, where my brother would invariably shove me to the narrow floor between the front seats and his “couch.” I would respond with a plaintive cry to my parents, who would make the usual threat about having to “stop this car” which curtailed any more appeals.

    There I would sit, knees-to-nose, in the tiny rectangle of space between the side of the car and the “hump” of its transmission, waiting for my revenge. Soon Jack would nod off into comfy slumber and it was time to take action. I would stealthily move my pincer fingers into position and take a quick swipe at his leg hairs. He would cry out in pain and, finally, an adult would turn around from the front and become aware of the unjust situation. Dad would “harrumph” and Mom would scold my brother to let me sit on the seat with him. He would grudgingly grant me space, only to put his feet in my lap or face in swift retaliation.

    Although the trip seemed endless, we would make the pilgrimage each summer to the tiny village of Seeley’s Bay. The lodging was far from resort-like, which made the trek even more mysterious to most people. We kids knew no better, and easily settled into our new routine. Dad would quickly empty the car of its contents (gator tucked safely away in one of the bulging bags) and drive off to find a place to launch the tag-along boat. Mom was left to establish our home-away-from-home—a meager two-room cottage that had little to speak of in amenities. Running water? Maybe—but usually provided by a pump from the well. Bathroom? Outside, thank you. Refrigerator? Only if you found the man who sold blocks of ice that had been sawed from the frozen lake during the previous winter. These would arrive cloaked in soggy sawdust and had to be clumsily lugged into the kitchen for the icebox. Television? Nope—just the crackling whines and whoops of Dad’s Grundig radio that provided erratic snippets of local entertainment, usually in French. Electricity? Not always, so batteries, flashlights, candles, and oil lamps were a necessity.

    And that brings us to the mainstay of the kitchen—the stove. Each year would provide another adventure in cooking for our mother. She would sneer at the wood stove upon our arrival and complain bitterly about its performance daily, but her cooking never faltered despite the challenge. Mom was a great cook, no matter what era the kitchen represented—from early frontier to modern electricity, her food was the best. Cottage breakfasts consisted of thick slabs of Canadian bacon fried with brown-shelled eggs that were basted with drippings or butter. The hit-or-miss toast (depending on the availability of a toasting device) was smeared with creamy farm-fresh butter, as were the made-from-scratch biscuits. Fluffy pancakes were drizzled with real maple syrup. The milk, topped with a thick layer of cream, was fresh from the farmer who owned the cottages along the lake. Fresh cheese and leftover Canadian bacon or bologna sandwiches were typical lunch fare. Dinner was usually the catch of the day.

    Dad came to Canada for the fishing (or “feeshin” as he would say)—and, perhaps, the Canadian Club. Dad and Jack would proudly return from a day in the boat red-faced as Cherokees from the lake-reflected sun, their catch swinging by the gills on a hooked chain. Mom would deftly gut and fillet the bass (or pike)—somehow, perhaps strategically, Dad could never quite get the process done to Mom’s specifications. Home fries and sweet corn or snap beans, meaty slices of tomato or crunchy cucumber would accompany the buttery crisp fillets on our hodge-podge dinner plates.

    At least once during our annual vacation, we would venture into Kingston, about 25 miles to the southwest of the village of Seeley’s Bay. Kingston was the “big city” of the area, and we would go there to shop and have lunch at one of the local restaurants. Faced with negotiating in French-Canadian with the locals, Dad would let Mom do the talking (after all, she had studied French in high school). He would mockingly jabber as the wait staff would attempt to get our order. Mom would point and gesture in response to their questions, scowling at Dad the whole time. Later, as we shopped, Dad would wait in the Bonneville and enjoy a cigar, paging through the newspaper that was, of course, printed in French. I can still see Dad cuff himself in the forehead, letting his meaty fingers slide down his face, in exasperation with the language barrier.

    We would return “home” by late afternoon, passing along a waterway that began at Lake Ontario and proceeded northeast to the Gulf of St. Lawrence and beyond. Dad would longingly eye the huge cruisers that had tied-up for the night, piloted by captains and other staff. He would engage one of the owners in conversation and before long we would find ourselves aboard the ship, getting the 50-cent tour. Mom would closely survey the galley, her eyes drawn like magnets to the gleaming accoutrements. Dad would do his best “marine-speak”, asking about the engines and electronic equipment (his specialty) on board. My brother and I would marvel at the gleaming wood and nifty mini-mansion furnishings—a far cry from our humble lodgings—and wait for the polite talk to end.

    Upon our return, we kids would often go for a quick swim (in lieu of a bath?), have a snack, and then prepare for bed. Canadian nights are quite different from those in Pittsburgh. Summer nights at home meant hot, humid, heavy air that was circulated by whirring fans. We would get our baths, rinsing away the sweat and grime of the day, and then catch lightning bugs before being whisked off to bed. Canadian nights meant a sponge bath with kettle-heated water from an old porcelain basin, warm flannel PJs, and fending off intruding mosquitoes that had sneaked into the cabin during the frequent openings and slammings of the spring-held screen door during the early evening. Although I would slide deep into the woolen blanket-covered sheets, the evil pests would mercilessly attack any available flesh, leaving me a lumpy, red-welted mess, seeking relief from the ever-present bottle of pasty pink calamine lotion. Jack never seemed to be bothered by the nasty insects—probably because he had cooties.

    Cottage life could become quite boring, but the lake provided lots of entertainment for me. Jack would occasionally take me out in the weathered-gray rowboat that was tied to the listing dock at the edge of the lake. That was fun, but he never let me do the “oaring.” More than anything, I loved to swim (even though it wasn’t really swimming). At my tender age, I called paddling in the water with an inner tube “swimming.” Canada was our once a year lake experience, but Dad’s love of boating and “feeshin” took us almost weekly to Deep Creek Lake in Maryland, about 100 miles southeast of Pittsburgh. Thus, I had lots of time to acquire “swimming” experience with various floatation devices. I loved the water almost as much as Mom hated it (she couldn’t swim).

    Which brings me to the gator. My faded yellow alligator was an elaborate variation on a floatation device. At the time, child safety was not the screaming priority that it has become today--the alligator would certainly not meet any current specifications as an “appropriate water safety device”. But, I loved him. He gave me the opportunity to paddle around in any body of water I could find—that was enough for me.

    My gator was inflated and ready for launch, after much huffing and puffing by everyone in the family. His black-spotted body (complete with wavy tail) awaited permission to glide me through the murky lake waters. Surprisingly, after Mom had washed my hair and rolled it into rubbery pink curlers (to put a little “girly” bounce into my limp, fine hair), she relented and said Jack could take me for a quick after-dinner swim. There was a quick (sharp?) reminder that I was NOT to get my hair wet and we were off. I didn’t even notice the malicious mosquitoes that were lurking in the early evening shadows as we scampered to the water.

    I slowed to tiptoe-pace at the edge of the lake, easing into the cool water, tightly gripping “Ally.” Jack did a running plunge and shoved a plume of water at me, taunting me about my hair. I whimpered and he quickly swam off, joining the other cottage kids who were already playing in the water several feet from where I stood, toes firmly planted in the muddy bottom. Ally and I then floated along a line that ran parallel to the shore, my toes cautiously skimming the bottom to be sure I wasn’t out too far. Arms wrapped snugly around the gator’s bulging middle, I scissor-kicked my legs, propelling us forward. Nearing the loud, splashing older kids I did a quick turn, pushing off from the bottom to retrace my path away from the danger of wet hair.

    A black water snake wiggled across our path, gliding on the glistening water just inches from Ally’s nose. The gator’s eyes stared stupidly, obliviously, while my eyes bulged and I swallowed a scream. I hated snakes—giant worms, like the hideous slimy things my brother would fling at me after a drenching summer storm. I twisted around in the safety of my gator’s belly to watch the snake continue his squiggly course away from the clamor.

    With the snake safely gone, my thoughts turned to the act of spinning around within Ally’s belly embrace. What I had unwittingly done was a rather interesting variation on paddling/swimming. I tried it again, this time with more force, pushing off the bottom then kicking my legs sideways to accelerate the spin. Wow, that was cool! I repeated the spin, adding more kick. I discovered that I really didn’t need to push off—I could do the trick with just leg power. Another spin—hardly a splash. Another, and…

    I twirled silently out of Ally’s safe embrace and spiraled to the bottom of the lake. My furtive kicking had propelled the floating gator and me out much farther than I had realized—my toes didn’t touch bottom until I was frighteningly well beneath the surface of the lake.

    I sunk like the proverbial rock. My eyes searched frantically through the murky lake water for land as my mind screamed, “WET HAIR!” I groped wildly, clawing at the rocks and vegetation on the bottom, scrambling like a hapless crab in search of safety. It felt, however, as if each move I made was in slow motion. How could it be so far to the shore? Was I crawling in the right direction? Would I be able to creep up on shore, quietly hiding my humiliation? I needed to breathe—my lungs and throat burned, aching to fill with fresh air.

    Suddenly I felt something swoop over, under, around me. The water swirled and sucked as I was scooped from the murk, emerging in a great gasp. Flashback! I had seen this before—the Tarzan movies on TV had shown how the hungry gator would quickly snatch his prey, twisting and flailing, water churning.

    My brother’s frightened face told me that I was, indeed, in trouble. He stumbled to shore with my rag-doll body and dumped me on the ground. Catching my breath, I automatically began to sob, begging him in staccato hiccups to not tell. He stared incredulously at me, panting, heart racing, helping me wrap the curler-pink beach towel around my limp body. No words were needed. My brother would not betray the silent code of sibling allegiance, the lifelong bond that is sealed by the heart and held within the soul. My rescue was part of his role, forever, as my big brother—safeguarding his “baby” sister, saving me from myself as needed.

    Jack and I walked back to the cottage in silence, while Ally floated lazily in the reflection of the sunset, his eyes staring insipidly across the mirror surface of the lake. He knew nothing of the terror beneath the surface of the water, our breath safely keeping him afloat.