that sits on the front verandah of our cottage and has sat there for the last 35 years. It’s truly an ugly thing; obviously built by a child. My father has wanted to cut that chair up for firewood for at least the last 25 years and my mother won’t let him. If he did I truly believe my mother would get violent and she’s a gentle woman—any anger at that level would surprise and shock us all—but I think she would—if he did. Indeed I think I’d schmuck him myself.

It was one of those glorious summer days in the Muskokas in Ontario—about 125 miles North of Toronto. Deep blue sky—a gentle breeze coming off the lake—the call of the loon in the distance—the occasional distant train whistle speaking to us of adventures deeper in the north—perfection.

My father and I had cleared the lake property the previous year and laid the foundations for our cottage. This summer we were framing the cottage in the hopes of at least getting the roof on before the winter came—this was late August in 1969 and we had only perhaps 6 – 8 weeks of building time left. The winters came fast, furious and deep in the Muskokas in those days and the property would not be accessible by October or early November.

My brother, 11 at the time, had previously never shown any inclination to want to help my father and I build or work with tools in any way but this day he announced he was going to build a chair. He grabbed some offcut 2 X 4’s and 2 X 2’s, some offcut pieces of plywood, a hammer, nails and a saw. My father and I chuckled—sure –this boy—never having touched a tool in his life was now going to build a chair.

My brother worked on that chair for the rest of the day—he struggled with it—cursed—banged his fingers with the hammer –cut himself with the saw. Still, he didn’t give up and refused, very angrily I might add, any and all offers of help from my father or myself. We were both terribly amused.

At the end of that day he sat down in his chair –his face beaming with pride at his accomplishment—and in kindness, my father and I, and my mother of course congratulated him on his accomplishment. This chair was a contortion; ugly, ill proportioned but nevertheless sturdy.

Over the years that chair has been moved to various corners of the cottage—sometimes inside—sometimes outside– but always around somewhere. Every time I see it I remember that summer. I know my mother does and over the last few years I’ve even caught my father looking at that chair reflectively with a little tear in his eyes. My daughter has sat in that chair, as have I and my brother’s daughters. I’ve used that chair as a ladder to change lightbulbs—my mother has used it to reach the upper cupboards in the kitchen—it’s been knocked about—left out in the snow many a winter and still it survives—ugly but sturdy.

You think I’m going to say my brother is dead and that is why that chair is important; not so.

My brother is alive but he’s had his share of troubles and some very serious trials that have changed him. He’s very different from what he was as a child—indeed so much so that you could say that the child that built that chair is dead. That chair is the only thing my brother has ever built.

My mother knows this, as do I and I think my father finally realizes it as well—that the chair serves to remind us of better times but it also symbolizes something very important— what could and should have been. It’s hard to look at that chair and know that but it’s important that we do.

I think I’ll take a drive up to the cottage and bring that chair in off the porch—even the sturdiest of chairs can only survive so many Muskoka winters and this chair must survive.

Ben