family and friends, talking, laughing, and dining. When a storm blew in, I would run off to the shelter of the cottage without a thought for him drenched in the rain. Often, I didnât even bother to cover him up.
I am getting a tear in my eye now, just thinking about him. He was strong, unpretentious, loyal, and reliable. He was really nothing to look at. He was a bit greasy and sometimes smelled a little gassy. He moved about with a little bit of a limp in his later years. He had certain quirks and mannerisms that you just learned to accept, deal with, and work around. He was unbalanced, and his knob didnât work properly. But he never let me down.
He was twenty-six years old when he finally bit it. Now, that doesnât sound very old in human terms, but for a barbecue it is ancient. I know how old he was because we kids had given him to my parents on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. They celebrated their fiftieth last May. He spent some time at our family home, and then he was shuffled off to the cottage when a fancy brand name barbecue came along.
I do not remember feeling too bad for him, because the cottage is a nice place to retire. He didnât want to retire, though, so he soldiered on. We would throw him in the dark, dank shed for winter, and then weâd pull him out upon our return to the cottage in spring. He never seemed to mind; actually, he seemed thrilled to see us. Iâd throw on a propane tank and stand out there with him, flipping steaks or sausages or burgers. I would drink a cold beer and feed him a little bit of sauce. When he was done, I would give him a little scratch on the head with a wire brush, and he was content.
I hope you donât mind me, in these politically correct times, calling this trusted outdoor cooking implement a he, but a barbecue just seems to me to be a masculine thing. He was always there when I needed him. He was great for my self-esteem. I have always been a little inept around the kitchen, but when I was partnered with him I could cook up whatever my wife sent my way. She could hand me a platter of chicken, beef, or ribs â no problem.
At home, three or four barbecues came and went. These shiny new appliances helped out for a little time, and then meekly packed it in. Even with all their bells and whistles and hefty price tags, they had nothing on our old comrade. When I bought the family cottage, I insisted that the purchase include this faithful friend. Perhaps it was cottage life that prolonged his existence; the beauty, the fresh air, the peacefulness. It seemed like he would live forever.
This spring, my wife set out a plate of T-bones, so off I went to the storage shed. I yanked him out ⦠and then it happened. His top fell off, his body disintegrated into dust. I stood there, stunned and sad. Holding my hand was a wooden handle; it was all that was left of my friend.
I wandered into the cottage looking woeful and forlorn, and my wife could tell instantly something had happened.
âWhatâs wrong?â she asked.
âHeâs gone,â I croaked. âCan you throw those steaks on the broiler?â
Boat Launch
It was a bit of a Mr. Bean moment. I had unstrapped the boat from the trailer and then backed it down into the water at the public boat launch. I jumped out of the car, went around back, released the winch, and unhooked the winch rope from the ring on the boatâs bow. It was then that I realized that I had not backed up quite far enough to get the boat afloat and free from the trailer. So I jumped back into the vehicle and inched it another foot backwards into the lake. The boat drifted free and floated out into the bay.
I stood there with my hands on my hips looking at my boat floating fifteen feet off shore. I tried to coax it in. âCome here, little boat,â I muttered. I thought about paddling my hands in the water, drawing them inwards to create a current that would pull the boat in, but