The tragic end of the in-law suite

There is a story up in the Haliburton highlands that no one dares tell too often, a tragic story that appears to be so fantastic and so incredible that it may actually be true. The tale of the in-law suite is rarely repeated because no one wants to admit guilt by association, and no man worth his right boot would want word to spread too far, especially as far as the in-laws. In the event you happen to be an in-law, consider this your final warning. Fish the shores of any cottage country lake, and you will find a myriad of camps with a little shack or shanty down by the water. These secondary dwellings often pale in comparison to their larger cousins up the hill, but are no less quaint and comfortable for a short stay at the lake. They usually come equipped with a small but agreeable bed, curtains for the windows, and perhaps an old puzzle or board game. They also usually come with the odd mouse or bat, but it’s all part of the cottage experience. The in-law suite is perfect for parents, drunks or any other annoyance overstaying their welcome. Down by the lake, they can find quiet time and still be part of the fun. An in-law suite overlooking the water is particularly valuable, especially during sunset or an all-day rain. Due to the unforgiving nature of most shoreline terrain, many an in-law suite has been built on a steep slope and held level by a number of posts, beams and buttresses. This is usually a small number, and also where the story picks up. The first night the in-laws visit, they will probably begin to complain about the price of gas, the traffic, and how long it took to get out of the city. They will remind you that you live so far away, that you never come and visit them, and they are missing seeing their grandchildren grow up. After hearing all this over barbecued steaks that you heard were too rare, too burned and too tough to chew, you politely excuse yourself for an evening fish. With rod and reel in hand, you disappear down the steps to the lake, pausing only once to grab the hand saw from the shed. On your way past the in-law suite, you quickly, quietly saw through most of the first post, and then go fishing. For day two, the in-laws are telling you to get a new job, a new car, and a new barber to trim the hair in your nose. Smiling, you excuse yourself from the table for the evening fish and cut through most of the second post. By day three, the in-laws are reminding you that your wife would have been better off marrying the guy she was seeing before she met you, their kids would have been much better looking, and your breath would make an excellent paint stripper if you ever refinish the cabin. You thank them for their kind words, tell them what a pleasant stay you are having, and ask if they can’t please stay just one more night. And then you cut the final post. That night, with the in-laws just settling into bed, you quietly walk down to the suite and give it a swift kick. By the time they realize what is happening, the old shack should have fallen like a house of cards, slipped down the rocks and be bobbing in the lake. And your in-laws will never bother to visit again.