Up North at the Cabin

It’s well into its third generation now. Every summer since 1980 my grandparents have retreated up north. With them, my mother and her generation of cousins. Now, me and mine. Almost all of us kids are grown now. Old enough to have left our parents empty nesters, not quite old enough to introduce a new generation to Wisconsin’s North woods. 

Even though the outside was pink when my grandparents bought it, I always remember the 1920’s lodge the same. A time capsule, the man they bought it from left everything. They haven’t replaced it. 

The rich colored wood smells deliciously like a deep inhale from the trees that surround it. Early mornings are silent besides for a single loon calling out. Crawling Stone Lake is smooth as silk. We have a tradition of swimming to the neighbors’s dock before breakfast to start the day. Nights get innocently rowdy with games of Sorry. The energy, fierce competition or bowls full of ice cream? Maybe both. Out on the dock our heads arched to the night sky full to the brim with stars. The in between of the day is relaxing spontaneity. Puzzles persist endlessly. Some swim, others boat. The water is clear. Even still, a wedding ring sits in the shallows, likely lost for good. Some wade in, others dive. The speed boat sunk before I remember. I kinda like it better that way. The garage is full of bikes. The banana seat one always sees the light of day —steezy but not very comfy. No TV, only togetherness.

The dinner bell accompanies sunset. We always eat together. The china plates and swirly plastic cups surly predate me. Toasts to family. The musky mounted on the wall above us I only recently outgrew. The moose on the way to the basement I never will. Too many cooks in the kitchen during dishwashing dance parties. 

Returning this time around, most everything in my life has changed. It’s quite exciting. But the cabin is exactly the same. Pretty much has been since 1980. I think there’s a special stillness and magic to that.