Lockport Union-Sun & Journal — It was about three weeks ago when my wife and I loaded up the truck and headed north to the mighty St. Lawrence River. (And if I don’t mention that my dog, Maggie, went, she’ll pout for a week.) So ... my dog, Maggie, went, too.
We are fortunate enough to have a small place nestled along the banks of the river just outside of Ogdensburg, in northern New York. And this was our first trip of the year to get it up and running for the summer.
A cottage. A cabin. A bungalow. A lodge. Call it whatever you want, but since my wife and I are both from that area, we call it a “camp.” We call it that because, well … because that’s what we call it. No biggie.
And in case you didn’t know, the St. Lawrence River is not only the gateway to the Great Lakes, it also serves as the international border separating us from those Labatt Blue-swigging, fire-cracker toting, Great White North, hockey-playing Canadians.
And a finer class of people you could not meet, eh?!
My wife, Kathie, has named our home-away-from-home “The Labor Camp.” It is a more-than-deserved moniker, an understatement to say the least. The place lures you in with the charm of a prom queen and then you find out you’ve hooked up with Carrie.
By most appearances, it looks like a nice summer getaway spot — and admittedly, it has its pleasant moments — but every year when you walk through the door, for the first time, and the door handle comes off in your hand and the screen door falls into your face, you know it’s a “here-we-go-again” scenario.
It’s a no-brainer that the tool kit will be out more often than the fishing boat. The price you pay for those “pleasant moments” is steep. It’s the same story (and column) every year. That’s just the way it is.