refrigerators, the hot-water heater, the stoves, and the lamps are all run on propane; the tanks of gas are delivered to the island by boat. The island has its own septic system, which is a subject often discussed by the hordes of Reelings and Gibsons and Ormsbys who empty themselves into it-and who are fearful of the system's eventual rebellion. I would not have wanted to visit the Reelings-or the Gibsons, or the Ormsbys-on their island before the septic system was installed; but that period of unlighted encounters with spiders in outhouses, and various late-night frights in the privy-world, is another favorite topic of discussion among the families who share the island each summer. I have heard, many times, the story of Uncle Bulwer Ormsby who was attacked by an owl in the privy-which had no door, 'the better to air it out!' the Reelings and the Gibsons and the Ormsbys all claimed. Uncle Bulwer was pecked on top of his head during
a fortunate hiatus in what should have been a most private action, and he was so fearful of the attacking owl that he fled the privy with his pants down at his ankles, and did even greater injury to himself-greater than the owl's injury-by running headfirst into a pine tree. And every year that I've visited the island, there are the familiar disputes regarding what kind of owl it was-or even if it was an owl. Katherine's husband, Charlie Keeling, says it was probably a horsefly or a moth. Others say it was surely a screech owl-for they are known to be fierce in the defense of their nests, even to the extent of attacking humans. Others say that a screech owl's range does not extend to Georgian Bay, and that it was surely a merlin-a pigeon hawk; they are very aggressive and are often mistaken for the smaller owls at night. The company of Katherine's large and friendly family is comforting to me. The conversations tend toward legendary occurrences on the island-many of which include acts of bravery or cowardice from the old outhouse or privy period of their lives. Disputed encounters with nature are also popular; my days here are most enjoyably spent in identifying species of bird and mammal and fish and reptile and, unfortunately, insect-almost none of which is well known to me. Was that an otter or a mink or a muskrat? Was that a loon or a duck or a scoter? Does it sting or bite, or is it poisonous? These distinctions are punctuated by more direct questions to the children. Did you flush, turn off the gas, close the screen door, leave the water running (the pump is run by a gasoline engine)-and did you hang up your bathing suit and towel where they will dry? It is remindful to me of my Loveless Lake days-without the agony of dating; and Loveless Lake is a dinky pond compared to Georgian Bay. Even in the summer of ', Loveless Lake was overrun by motorboats-and in those days, many summer cottages flushed their toilets directly into the lake. The so-called great outdoors is so much greater and so much nicer in Canada than it ever was-in my time-in New Hampshire. But pine pitch on your fingers is the same everywhere; and the kids with their hair damp all day, and their wet bathing suits, and someone always with a skinned knee, or a splinter, and the sound of bare feet on a dock . . . and the quarreling, all the quarreling. I love it; for a short time, it is very soothing. I can almost imagine that I have had a life very different from the life I have had. One can learn much through the thin walls of summer houses. For example, I once heard Charlie Keeling tell Katherine that I was a 'nonpracticing homosexual.'
'What does that mean?' Katherine asked him. I held my breath, I strained to hear Charlie's answer-for years I've wanted to know what it means to be a 'nonpracticing homosexual.'
'You know what I mean, Katherine,' Charlie said.
'You mean he doesn't do it,' Katherine said.
'I believe he doesn't,' Charlie said.
'But when he thinks about doing it, he thinks about doing it with men?' Katherine asked.
'I believe he doesn't think about it, at all,' Charlie answered.
'Then in what way is he 'homosexual,' Charlie?' Katherine asked. Charlie sighed; in summer houses, one can even hear the sighs.
'He's not unattractive,' Charlie said. 'He doesn't have a girlfriend. Has he ever had a girlfriend?'
'I fail to see how this makes him gay,' Katherine said. 'He doesn't seem gay, not to me.'
'I didn't say he was gay,' Charlie said. 'A nonpracticing homosexual doesn't always know what he is.'
So that's what it means to be a 'nonpracticing homosexual,' I thought: it means I don't know what I am! Every day there is a discussion of what we will eat-and who will take the boat, or one of the boats, to the station to fetch the food and the vitals. The shopping list is profoundly basic. gasoline
batteries Band-Aids
corn (if any) insect repellent hamburg and buns (lots) eggs
milk flour
butter beer (lots) fruit (if any)
bacon tomatoes clothespins (for Prue) N lemons live bait I let the younger children show me how they have learned to drive the boat. I let Charlie Keeling take me fishing; I really enjoy fishing for smallmouth bass-one day a year. I lend a hand to whatever the most pressing project on the island is: the Ormsbys need to rebuild their deck; the Gibsons are replacing shingles on the boathouse roof. Every day, I volunteer to be the one to go to the station; shopping for a
