Prelude
When my children were very young I was in the habit of telling them a one minute story at bedtime. For the longest time I had to tell this story of Nagyi and the Cow Poop over and over again. Needless to say these stories were never only one minute long, much to the chagrin of my wife Kathleen. After awhile I had to start coming up with new stories each night which came out of my youth and extensive pre-family travels. As the kids grew older these stories grew into fascinating discussions of the world, other cultures and of course the love of travelling.
Nagyi and the Cow Poop is a story of when I was a very young lad. My children called their grandmother (my mother) Nagyi which is the Hungarian equivalent of Nana and their grandfather was called Apu. It happened at our summer cottage at Lac Taureau near Saint Ignace du Lac in Quebec. In those days our cottage was quite isolated, particularly during the week. It was a beautiful but very basic cottage located in a large forested area which was just a few steps from a large lake and a beautiful sandy beach. Our lake was formed artificially in the nineteen thirties and stretched over 20 miles in front of our cottage with a number of uninhabited islands dotting the water, a haven for blueberry picking. Cottages were few and far between and other than the logging boats, not many recreational crafts were to be seen, and when one did pass by, we usually recognized the boat and the occupants.
Saint Ignace du Lac was a small farming hamlet which spread about ten or fifteen miles along the main road. In those days the main occupation of the people was subsistence farming as the land was very poor and the summer growing season very short, consequently the farmers lived off small dairy farming in the summer and logging in the winter. The tourist industry which is now the mainstay of the region was still many years away. Our family became a part of the community and we were considered old time summer residents.
Our cottage was accessible from the main gravel road, by a small one lane cart path which wound its way down a steep hill through a field and into our forest. There the road became even narrower and bumpy with branches brushing the car as it went down, finally ending up at the cottage. Although long for us, the trip was well worth the effort.
In the summer months my father would come up for the weekends as well as for his two week vacation but would leave my mother and us three kids there over the summer. We had two cottages; the main cottage was warm and cozy with a hand built fieldstone fireplace, the other, our guest cottage, was more primitive with only two rooms but it was perfect for our guests in the summer since we spent most of our time out on the beach or socializing in the main cottage. We had no electricity and no telephone so our main entertainment was swimming, boating and playing on the beach and generally keeping ourselves occupied with the daily chores of pumping water and cutting firewood ( only when we became older of course). In the evenings we played cards, board games and of course read voraciously. Throughout the summer and over the years we invited many different families with their children to visit and stay with us. It was a time of fond memories, and we developed lifelong friendships and now our story starts.
