MAY 2-4 WEEKEND
At some point, when I blinked, or perhaps took a midlife-habit afternoon nap, May “Two-Four” weekend stopped being a reference to a case of beer.
In our student years, May 2-4 meant descending on a cottage with a backpack of clothes, a case of beer, a mickey of booze and a pack of smokes [sic…and, also sick. What can I say? It was the 80s]. This was the weekend ‘ante’, brought with the expectation that most of it, including/especially the clothes, would get stolen by the scammer contingent.[1] Even without the lethal add-ons, May 2-4 in today’s health recommendations would mean consuming 12 weeks-worth of beer in 3 days. For the sake of their livers, I share this with the kids as a ‘do as I say, not as I do/did’ lesson. But I have cleaned up enough red solo cups to recognize that this self-abuse phase is rite of passage that has already left the barn. Once we had our own cottage, May long weekend shifted into “Opening Weekend”: both in terms of the process of reviving the cottage from hibernation, and, like a Blue Jays home opener, kicking off the summer season.
When we first bought our cottage…and for a decade after that…we didn’t bother much with chores, because the cottage, and everything that came with it, was about 50 years old, and 25 years past its prime. It was a DYI version of a “Madmen” recreation property with all the kitsch, but none of the mid-century modern chic.[2] The exterior was the ever-classic “Pee and Poo” palette of brown and yellow. It had 2” brown shag rug, with brown, orange, and green floral wallpaper, and furniture to match. There was a giant hump in the middle of the living room, a pitcher’s mound with an unknown origin right in front of the cast iron stove (aka: indoor forge).[3] The plumbing was a network of garden hoses strung in the 1-foot-high crawl space under the cabin. To get the system started M had to army crawl under there and fill the hose line up with enormous camp kettles filled approximately 100 times from the lake, and with equivalent marital disagreements.[4] The septic system was long past its prime (and dubiously located about 4 feet from the edge of the lake). By the end of a weekend of active use it would seep out, making the whole place smell like poop.[5]
The cottage was called “The Acorn” – a moniker that immediately got changed to “The Akorn” (because, clearly, WAY Kooler), before ceding to the obvious: “The Devil.” The May long weekend at The Devil was/is the kick off to 12 straight weekends of hosting. The summer schedule would be booked out before the snow had even begun to melt. Every weekend brought a new raft of guests looking to maximize their lake country invite. By the time Labour Day rolled around, the very idea of BBQ ribs, s’mores, or singing along to “Wagon Wheel” by the fire pit had warped “Devil” to “diabolical”. Guests would routinely want to stay at the campfire until the sun came up. The challenge for us was that we had children earlier than everyone else. There was no way both M & I could be up all night long, inventing dubious firepit business ideas and making up song lyrics.[6] One of us had to be ready to go at 5 am when the kids woke up.
Morning duty parent was tasked with whisking these pesky reminders of responsibility away before they woke up the barely to bed revellers. First stop was the Van Houtte coffee buffet at the local gas station - twelve urns of bean options, all of which tasted like faux Irish Cream. Breakfast for the kids consisted of a box of Honey Nut Cheerios eaten dry by the fistful straight out of the box. The challenge then was to try to kill as many hours as possible. Outside of the playground, a favourite time suck location was the “Jiggle Store” – a massive cottage mercantile with 10,000 square feet of shoe displays, AND a room dedicated to heated massage chairs. A smarter parent would quickly realize that “heated” and “jiggle” do not compliment toddler sized bladders/bladder control. This makeshift amusement park ride came to an abrupt stop, as did my correlated shoe collection.
The dump was also unexpectedly entertaining. The kids were guaranteed to fall asleep on the twisty cottage road, providing a rare half hour of sensory deprivation bliss. The dump itself was overseen by a gnarled dude of unfathomable age who sat in a little shed / curio cabinet of all the found treasurers that he had gleaned from the landfill. He drove a dilapidated truck that looked similarly sourced, with the bust of a taxidermy dog hanging out the passenger window, artfully frozen as though facing into an imagined wind, tongue lolling. His preserved Best Friend brought the Dump Dude, and me, a lot of joy. After what felt like marathon-length time lapse, and effort, we would return to cottage to find everyone still asleep. While they were still annoyed at being woken up, getting out of bed was the critical first step to starting all over again with beer o’clock starting at noon. The TWO-FOUR of the May long weekend was still in effect – it just involved expensive IPAs and bottle of Pinot Gris.
These days, May long weekend has lost both its party aspect and, now an year-round home, its list of opening day chores. After twenty years of consistently putting out M’s back putting the docks, we don’t even do that anymore – leaving it instead to the 300lb “Dock Dock-tor”, who had his nipple bitten off by a fish last time he did the install. So good choice farming that out. We don’t miss getting the water restarted and are happy to stay nostalgic about spending 6-8am watching the kids collect “jewels” from the rocks at the local park. But we remain ready to spark up the firepit, crack out the graham crackers, and belt out an occasional round of Wagon Wheel. And I look forward to “Katering” season when guests descend on the oasis and leave simultaneously refreshed and smelling of campfire smoke.
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[1] You would routinely see your clothes on other people later in the summer:
“That’s my shirt.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It has my name across the back.”
“Prove it.”
[2] And a mad man creation. The previous owner, Fitzpatrick, took great pride in his civil engineering degree, finding countless applications for making concrete or building stuff out of garbage. These were dubbed “Fitzies” – and we are still weeding them out 20 years later.
[4] This combination couldn’t possibly end well, especially with toddlers in the mix. And it didn’t, as S’s palms can attest.
[5] Occasionally, we had the plumber in. The plumber was 6’4” and 250lbs and had to jack-knife his gigantic body in and out of the crawl space. One remarking: “finishing that high school diploma is looking better every day.” Once he emerged so fast, I am surprised he didn’t leave a limb behind. He had come face to face with Jake the 6’ (yes: Six. Foot.) rat snake. He refused to return our calls after that.
[6] We would regularly have to call on Brian the septic guy to come empty it. This was always a highlight because Brian was the only person (Lion’s Club champ) who could beat M at horseshoes, and because he had the best-ever branding: “A Royal Flush Beats a Full House.” He should sell merch.
[7] Although we did invent Sap Water at 3am, May 24, 2002. Should have filed a patent.