Here at the cottage, a storm brings a wild and astonishing beauty.

      We light the propane lights and oil lanterns in the cabin, and the children pull out a deck of cards. I sit outside under the covered porch; the howling wind and rolling waves leave me feeling serene. The rain hits suddenly; it does not start slowly but gets thrown down. Horizontal drops pelt the cottage windows and buffet me under the porch roof — so I sneak inside, and we all gather to watch the show from the big front window. Thunder shakes the cabin, and the kids scream with excitement. They count aloud the seconds between thunder and lightning. Boom and bolt happen simultaneously, and prongs of lightning seem to strike into our little bay.

      My wife asks me to go out to see if the dogs are all right. She thinks she has heard the crash of a tree as it hit the privy. She wonders aloud whether the swim raft has broken its moorings and floated to the far end of the lake. She thinks I should go check on the boat. I watch the lightning touch down nearby, and wonder whether getting life insurance with her encouragement was such a good idea.

      The storm rages for about an hour, and then the clouds move off to the south, the sound and light disappear over the distant hills. The lake calms perceptively, and the stars come out. Still, the children decide they will sleep in the loft rather than the tent tonight. I wander around to check on things. The island smells damp and cool. Besides some broken branches and boughs, all is well.

      I love a good storm. I recall being caught outside in many. I remember canoe trips, scrambling to get tents set up when a squall hits, and mountain storms on horse pack trips, trying to get horses fed while the wind whips your long slicker and rain streams from your hat. Nothing beats a cottage storm, when you are warm and cozy, under the soft glow of the oil lamps with a fire burning in the wood stove, looking out at the sound and fury over the lake.

      At home, a storm like this would have brought worries of power outages, surges, driving problems. Here at the cottage, it just brings a wild and astonishing beauty … the perfect storm.

      Holding the Fort

      Some stories are better started at the end.

      My wife, sister, and brother-in-law, back from a shopping expedition, came walking into a cottage thick with smoke. The cabin was a disaster. There I stood, my pants soaked in an area that suggested I had wet myself, hot dogs smeared into my jeans and scattered about my feet, the charred remains of something inedible visible on the oven rack behind the open stove door, and my shirt ripped and tattered and scorched black. On my face was a smile that probably looked quite idiotic — but it was simply meant to calm the horrified expressions that greeted me and to convey the message that all was okay and you won’t believe this.

      Their worry was not for my predicament, however, which became evident when the ladies asked loudly in unison, “Are the kids all right?”

      “Oh, yes.” I had forgotten about them.

      “Where are they?”

      “Oh — they’re out there.” I made a sweeping gesture with my hand, indicating a wide radius where the children might be found. “They’re on the island — somewhere …”

      My wife gave me a practised glower. My sister shook her head disbelievingly. My brother-in-law smiled — he had one-upped me in the constant understated competition of looking good to the spouses.

      Now, perhaps it’s best if I go back to the beginning.

      My sister has always thought me totally inept in all things responsible and domestic. It was with a countenance of worry that she had begrudgingly agreed to leave me in charge of our combined seven children, while the three mature adults headed to town to restock our provisions.

      “Don’t let them play too close to the water. Don’t let them play with the axe or the chainsaw. Don’t let them play with matches. Don’t encourage them to swim to shore.” And then to her oldest boy the heartfelt plea — “Watch over your brothers and cousins, please.”

      In their absence, I was determined to prove my sister’s lack of confidence misplaced. I went back to my work, sealing the cracks between logs and around window and door frames, but diligently, on the quarter hour, I hollered out into the thick forest asking if all was well. Each time, the response was affirmative. On the occasion of my fifteenth check, I received the response, “What’s for lunch?”

      “Hot dogs!” I bellowed, wanting to sound like I had a plan.

      So back to the cabin I went, lit the propane oven, and tossed in a dozen buns. I placed a pot full of wieners and water on the gas element, then flicked my butane igniter — poof, easy. I hung up the lighter, very pleased with myself. I felt my stomach getting quite warm. I looked down, and to my horror saw that my paint-stained, soiled work shirt was afire. I patted it gingerly with my open palm, which made a “whoosh, whoosh” sound as it fanned the flame. Now, I knew what I was supposed to do in an emergency like this, but I was alone in a cottage far from civilization, and I would have felt quite silly rolling around with this small flame burning on my belly. So I waved my hand harder, which served to both spread the fire and knock the pot of wieners and water from their stovetop perch — water unfortunately soaking my pants but avoiding the fire.

      I rolled on the ground. I wasn’t burnt, but it was a mess. Then I heard the boat docking. I panicked and looked for the broom — seeing instead black smoke billowing out of the oven.

      Now, in this, the last chance I will ever be afforded to “hold the fort,” I did learn a lesson. The spray-in foam insulation is very flammable before it cures. So, if you’ve been working with it, guys, and wiping your hands on your work shirts, be very careful to not burn your wieners.

      Death of a Dog

      Unfortunately, I have buried many dogs in my lifetime — such is the canine business that I am in. But the one who lies beneath a stand of old cedars on our island’s highest point was the first to be laid to rest at the cottage.

      The