Naked Moment
by
H. Vi Jamieson
Before the ice goes out on Falcon Lake in Manitoba, there is usually a spell of mild weather. Then, screaming out of the northwest, comes a wind howling across the lake. It breaks the winter ice into huge chunks and piles them on the south shore. Docks, or anything else along the shore, can be torn from their moorings and broken into splinters unless they have been raised clear out of the water in the fall.
This year, in the city, March came in like a lamb. By April, husband Cec and his twelve-year-old shadow, Mike, deemed it time to go down to the lake and see how our dock had wintered. I packed a lunch.
Except for country crossroad gas stations and restaurants, the road took us through forests still unawakened from the silence of winter. Mike's sharp eyes caught sight of yellowing clumps of willow among the naked trees, however. "Look, pussy willows soon!" he shouted.
Finally, crossing the causeway to the South Shore cottage country, we could see blue open water far out in the lake.
"That's unusual for April," Cec mused.
"Maybe it's going to be different this year," Mike hopefully suggested.
Mike was right. Instead of ice chunks piled every-which-way, the little bays were still encased in a fine filigree of thin, tinkling ice. We kept stopping just to listen and wonder. By noon the sun was high in the sky and hot. I headed for the cottage to set out lunch. Mike found a shady place between the cottage and the guest house and busied himself unwinding last summer's swing.
The verandah was sweltering. Cec decided to unlatch a couple of windows and hook them up to the ceiling. He came into the cottage looking for something cooler to wear and found an old dusty pair of shorts. He took off his trousers and underpants, donned the shorts, swiped a sandwich in passing the table and went back to work.
The cottage was quiet except for the clock ticking, and outside, the protesting of the long, unused swing ropes. Then, a frantic "Psst, Vi! Come here. Quick!"
I went. There, standing on a stool, tummy stretched tight, holding a glass window up to the ceiling was Cecil, naked from the waist down, the old shorts crumpled about his feet!
The swing was getting airborne. Mike was pumping vigorously. In moments he would pass the end of the verandah.
I couldn't think what to do first.
"Grab the stool and hold the window," Cec hissed. I did as I was told.
He reached down, clutched the offending bathing suit, pulled it up around his waist and, with one flying leap, disappeared inside the cottage just as the swing and Mike came flying into view. "Mrs. J., look how high I can go. Tell Mr. J. to ..." The voice and the swing disappeared between the two buildings.
Cec, fully dressed, was quiet at lunch. Mike never noticed. He was too busy eating sandwiches and talking about how high that old swing could go!
