So, it seems that my uncle has sold the family cottage. I guess it is his to sell, but it feels very strange. The cottage was built on land that my great-grandfather purchased. It was built by my grandparents, my dad, and his brothers. I've been going there on vacations all my life.
To be true, my uncle is 63 and the cottage demands a lot of upkeep. Plus, there are about 100 stairs up and down a hill to get there and back. And since it has become his place over the years, he can do what he wishes and trade it in for an easier place.
A part of me always knew that this day would come, when he would want to sell the place. I'd just hoped that it would have been kept in the family; that the day wouldn't come until I was in a position that I could buy it myself. But the sale closes on the 1st, and I won't even be able to get up there to say goodbye to the place.
Such is life, I guess. One can't control the actions or possessions of others, especially if it involves property. Still, I feel in a small way the way I did forteen and Irving Place slipped away. Another piece of my childhood is vanishing in the mist.
Farewell, Winne-Ko-Mac.
Well said. This past week, I spent some time there and even slept in the boathouse for the last time; I have often said it is the nicest place on earth to sleep, listening to the water gently lapping the shore below. There are 88 steps from the top of the hill to the cottage door, and 104 from the top to the shore; I told your uncle I wouldn't have labored to build them in 2001 if I had known we wouldn't be treading them into our old age. Aug 31 is the sixteenth anniversary since your grandpa Olson died; so on the 30th, I rode up there with your grandma and broke off a bough of hemlock to place on his grave site. Your aunt and uncle were up on the 31st to pack and move to the new place. I was too sad to help.