Pelee: It's Not Just a Funny-Sounding Word Anymore
Friday, my stepfather Todd and I are waiting in line to ride the Millennium Force roller coaster and the next Thursday, my wife Robin and I are flying over it in a terrifying little airplane. From above, I have two distinct impressions. One is that the new coaster dwarfs the Magnum, which only a few years ago was the tallest coaster in the world. The other is that if Cedar Point makes its money providing death thrills, then it should really look into buying this airplane we’re on.
This is the way to Pelee Island, and it’s never easy.
As we fly on, we see Lake Erie below, populated with boats close enough for us see on-deck shenanigans. There used to be two ferries to Pelee. One moved over to serve Pelee-bound Canadians and the other decided not to go to Pelee anymore. If you own a boat (or eight boats, as Todd does), you can take yourself to Pelee. If you don’t, you fly in these ten-seat coffins.
“At least if the engines quit, we don’t have far to fall,” Robin says.
This is the way to Pelee. It’s never easy, since the island is isolated in Canadian waters, but it’s worth it if Pelee is your type of place. WARNING: It is not a lot of people’s type of place. You get land and you get adjacent water, but the rest is pretty much do-it-yourself. We knew people who came to visit the island one afternoon as a day trip. They stepped off the ferry onto the dirt roads with nothingness all around and said, “Now what the hell are we supposed to do?”
The successful Pelee-goer will have perfected the fine art of doing nothing. Just above nothing is playing darts and cards, and spending hours upon hours reading. Don’t turn on the TV. You won’t get reception anyway.
Our hosts, Vince and Georgene, advise, “Pretend you’re on a 1930s farm.”
On a 1930s farm, you apparently shower with lake water. You apparently only flush when absolutely necessary. That’s right — you know what I’m talking about.
The first time we visited, we were sitting down for dinner when Vince said, “Get this. A bear walks into a bar. Bartender says, ‘What’ll ya have?’ And the bear says…”
And here, there was a dramatic silence.
“…’I'll have a beer,’” he continued. “And the bartender says, ‘Why the big paws?’”
If you aren’t chuckling right now, remember that “paws” is a homonym of “pause.” And if you’re still not chuckling, then I’m not inviting you over for cocktails because it means you won’t like my other favorite joke, either.
What’s brown and sticky?
Answer: A stick.
Vince and Georgene are in their seventies but act decades younger, like everyone else on Pelee. I’d say it’s something in the water, but we’re not usually supposed to drink what comes out of the tap. Or brush our teeth with it. Or use it for cooking or in coffee. Or allow it within six inches of exposed skin.
This visit, I asked Vince to tell the bear joke again. He didn’t remember having told it the first time.
Last week’s was our third visit. And I should explain: Vince and Georgene are not related to us. They’re the parents of my mom’s friend Kathy. Yet for some reason, they like to have many random people visit, and for our part, we’re all too happy to go as often as they’ll tolerate us. We try to increase this statistic by helping out. We wash the dishes. We take the garbage to the dump, which Vince calls “the mall” and from which he has procured some of his deck furniture. We bury organic garbage. We burn pretty much everything else. Then we go home and I throw everything into one can and it’s like a vacation.
Rule #1: When you drive down any of Pelee’s many dirt roads, it’s standard to honk and wave at passing cars. If you do not, everyone will know you’re either a day-tripper or an asshole. Try to drive slowly when passing bikes. They’re already ruining their chances of having children by riding on the washboard surface, so don’t make it worse by burying them in a dust plume.
And while we’re at it, please don’t expect your own private bedroom suite. When we’ve visited in the past, there have been up to twelve people in the small cottage. Plus two dogs.
Which leads to Rule #2: People come and go and sleep where there’s room, including on the floor. It’s a vagabond atmosphere. That’s the way we see it. You can also see it the way Georgene does, suggesting that we tell our friends, “I came to a bed and breakfast on Pelee, but they didn’t give me a bed and they didn’t give me breakfast.”
Prepare yourself for sporadic pointless competitions. Last year there was a kayak race, which was marred by controversy when a contestant who shall remain nameless grabbed and dragged more than one of his opponents backward. Several entrants capsized.
Rule #3: Look for unnecessary projects. This year, we helped shovel a bunch of dirt around randomly. One year, I’m told, a team of men with a tractor spent most of a day trying to move a boulder. My mother, who tells this story, reports being unclear as to why the boulder needed to move in the first place.
The cottage we visit is on Lorain Lane, so-called because most of the cottages along it are owned by people who live across the lake in Lorain, Ohio. So, they all know each other. As people walk by, they chat and wave. We can usually count on seeing Lou and Marnie, for one. They stopped by this time in the middle of a walk and Lou asked Marnie, on leaving, whether she’d prefer to walk back via the beach or the tiny path that passes for the Lane. Marnie’s vote was to take the road.
Lou pointed at me. “You’ve only been married a few years, so pay attention to how I handle this,” he said. He turned to his wife. “Yes, dear. Whatever you’d like, dear.”
Last year, Lou and Vince played me and Todd in tennis. Combine the ages on our side of the net and you approach the younger of the two on the other side. Still, to use a colloquialism from my generation, The older guys whooped our asses. Twice.
Vince and Georgene are on this mailing list. Knowing that I report my life’s events to people they don’t know, they regarded me this visit with a wary eye, making occasional mention of “making the newsletter.” I figured they were overdue anyway, but the flies clinched it. The huge swarms of black, biting flies.
Putting up a screen tent, dancing and swatting between steps of assembly, Vince yelled at me, “Oh boy, looks like we’re going to make the newsletter this time!”
Don’t let his faux concern fool you. He was totally digging for a mention.
Here’s the thing about Pelee’s black flies. Having been hardened by life with non-potable water, questionable plumbing, no grocery store, and FedEx overnight deliveries that take a week to arrive, they’ve become the Delta Force of insects. OFF doesn’t work. A strange and suspect menthol fly balm doesn’t work. Dish soap (which, really, why the hell would it work) doesn’t work. Butter doesn’t work. Although to be fair, it’s possible that these remedies didn’t work because the person who kept handing them to me as fly repellants could just have been seeing what else I’d fall for.
In the end, the tent saved us. As in, as soon as we put it up, the flies vanished.
Flies aren’t the rule. But they aren’t the exception, either. You take what you get. But it’s worth the flies and the death planes and the non-flushed toilets because going to Pelee is like stepping back in time. That place, it’s what the world used to be — what it’s supposed to be like. We learn jokes to boot. And, why the big paws?
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