I just got back from a weekend of reading, swimming, sunning and pigging out at a Matt's cottage. It was a bittersweet weekend, because we found out that this modest summer house on the white-sand shores of Lake Huron, which has been in the family for more than 50 years, has been sold to the owners of the monster house across the road.
Between frisbee games and remembering what air is supposed to smell like, I looked around the house at the door frame with the kids and grandkids' heights, with pictures of hockey players (Matt's granddad was NHL scoring champion 1948-49 when he played for the Chicago Blackhawks), I got really sad about the mutability and impremanence of ideas like home.
NB: we went through a photoalbum and saw all the early-days endorsement that his grandfather had done. One for Camel cigarettes: "Speed is fine on the ice, but not in a cigarette. That's why I smoke Camel slow-burning filtered cigarettes."
