She was.
Nancy Borden Oatman was born the following May 25, with four siblings joining her within ten years: me, Margaret Prentice Oatman, born August 15, 1949; David Borden Oatman Jr., born October 31, 1951; Thomas Sanford Oatman, born June 29, 1954; and Mary Helen Oatman, born February 11, 1957.
And what better place to haul five active kids but to the Northwoods?
Wake Robin was waiting.
Vacationing Up North, however, means different things to different people. For some, it means quiet time on the dock, a book on the porch, a walk in a still forest, or a time to let the day unfold naturally.
But in our growing-up years in the 1950s and ’60s, the Northwoods for Woody meant scheduling and planning. An organized canoe ride, swim, hike, sail, picnic, or party were frequently on her to-do list. She was not a sitter unless it was for a good visit on the dock. It’s no wonder she often woke her five children at the crack of dawn to see the sunrise over the lake. What were we sleeping for?
In a moment of mischievous fun, our father wrote up a humorous schedule that perfectly parodied her daily desire for minute-by-minute activity. Tacked to the inside of a cabin cupboard for more than fifty years, it is a hilarious testament not only to my father’s humor but also to my mother’s energy.
AUNT WOODY’S SCHEDULE for REST AND RELAXATION(?)
A.M.
4:45 RISE AND DO 50 PUSHUPS AT BEDSIDE
4:50 MORNING’S MORNING
4:55 SWIM TO ISLAND
5:05 100 PUSHUPS ON DOCK
5:15 JOG TO SAWMILL AND RETURN. TWO MILES
5:30 NATURE HIKE TO EAGLE’S NEST LAKE. COLLECT LEAF SAMPLES
6:00 CHOW (SPAM) ON DOCK
6:05 FLAG RAISING
6:10 ROW TO END OF LAKE
6:45 BIRD WATCHING CLASS NORTH LAKE
7:30 WASH CLOTHES
7:35 POLICE AREA
7:55 HORSEBACK RIDING
10:00 SWIM ACROSS LAKE
10:20 HUNT FROGS IN SWAMP
10:40 SWIM HOME
10:50
SAIL TO END OF LITTLE SPIDER
P.M.
12:00 COOKOUT ON ISLAND
12:10 EXPLORE AREA FOR FLORA AND FAUNA
1:00 WRITE THEME RE: FLORA AND FAUNA 750 WORDS OR MORE
1:45 FIVE MILE HIKE IN THE WOODS
2:30 FREE SWIM TO MUD LAKE AND RETURN
3:00 TAKE GARBAGE TO DUMP AND INTERVIEW BEARS FOR OPINIONS ON ROCK AND ROLL
3:45 WRITE THEME OF 1,000 WORDS ON BEARS
4:00 JOG TO MAIL BOX (SIX MILES)
4:15 PICK WILD FLOWERS
4:30 VISIT NEIGHBORS FOR HAPPY HOUR
5:55 SECURE INDIAN GUIDE FOR TRIP HOME FROM NEIGHBORS
6:00 CHOW
6:15 PRAYER MEETING
8:45 STAR GAZING FROM DOCK
9:30 FISH FOR MUSKY
10:30 CLEAN MUSKY
10:45 FREE TIME. WRITE HOME. WASH SOCKS
10:50 SAY PRAYERS
11:00 GO TO BED. ETC.?
In addition to her high energy level, Woody also believed the more the merrier! Why not share all this Northwoods fun and beauty with others?
We often started our day with an early morning swim—which also meant playing in the water. Here, my parents hold Tom and Mary, circa 1959.
And so she generously invited entire families to come and stay with us at the cabin, often for several weeks at a time. It didn’t matter that, frequently, all seven of us were already encamped. With only two small bedrooms, the twin beds on the porch, overflow sleeping in the rustic “guest room” connected to the back of the garage (where occasional bats hung out as well), and one tiny bathroom, she somehow made it work.
For several summers in the 1960s, my father’s three best college friends—Ben Mellinger, Tom Allison, and Bob Deeter, all Sigma Chis and as close as real brothers—joined us with their families for a few weeks on the lake. Sometimes, one of the families stayed with us while the others stayed at Moody’s cabins next door on the hill.
Our dock, however, was the gathering place. At different times of the day, it looked like an aircraft carrier landing strip as swimmers, sailors, fishermen, and canoeists zipped in and out while the sunbathers watched and visited. It’s amazing the dock didn’t collapse under the weight of so many. Despite all the activity and commotion, however, for my parents and these loyal, lifelong friends, it was a joyous time.
We children were also allowed to occasionally ask a friend to join us: our best friends from home, their parents, our neighbors, and my sister Nancy’s and my boyfriends all made the trip.
With only a small refrigerator (a freezer eventually was added out in the garage storage room)—and despite the fact that gathering groceries meant a 40-mile round-trip to town with the five of us children in tow—Woody managed to entertain with creative flair and endless energy.
Her fish fries on the lake’s several islands were legendary.
Woody would pack picnic baskets full of iron skillets, tablecloths, utensils, and her own special potato salad, which she’d gotten up at dawn to make. Hauling it all down to the lake, we kids and our father piled up our small fishing boat and canoe with enough supplies and firewood that by the time we all got in, the boats were barely floating above the waterline. It’s a miracle we didn’t capsize.
With a fleet of friends’ boats and canoes anchored at an island’s tip, Woody held court. Using us as assistants, she built the fire, fried up walleye fillets in a pound of butter, dished out her potato salad, and served homemade strawberry shortcake—sometimes even in pouring rain. When all guests had departed, satiated with laughter and food, she helped pack up the flame-blackened skillets and picnic paraphernalia, and—rather than return via a relaxing fishing boat ride—had enough energy to canoe back home with one of us kids as her partner (usually the one who did not make it into the fishing boat first).
When she wasn’t entertaining, she happily supervised us down at the lake as we were never allowed to swim alone. It wasn’t enough, however, for us to just fool around in the water and play.
“Who wants to swim to the island today?” she’d ask to no one in particular.
Swim to the island? Was she kidding? All we wanted to do was lie on the dock, get a suntan, splash in the lake, practice our cannonballs, or hunt for clams and frogs.
“I’ll row,” she offered.
And sooner or later one of us was usually coaxed into the effort. Once we got going, some of us swam to the island and back numerous times. As a teenager, however, Nancy won the prize by taking on the challenge of swimming, in rough waves, approximately half a mile across the lake. She did it.
Running Wake Robin like a camp, Woody put forth numerous goals for us to achieve: twenty-five laps in one session to the neighbor’s dock and back; canoe around the entire shoreline; hike back through the virgin forest to Eagle’s Nest Lake; row through the maze of water lilies to see their purple, yellow, and white blooms; get up and see the sunrise.
We were not always happy with these dictates and activities. Mumbling and grumbling often ensued. Why couldn’t we just have hot dogs and potato chips on our picnics like regular kids instead of icky fish? Why couldn’t we just sit on the dock and get a tan? Why couldn’t we just be?
But once we were underway, we had to admit the canoe ride was fun, the swim to the island a new exploit to boast about, and the sunrise, of course, glorious.
The logistics of all this entertaining and activity were mind-boggling.
Grocery shopping was a major expedition. Not wanting to leave any of us at the lake for fear we might drown, Woody piled the five of us in the station wagon for the thirty-minute trip to town. Usually we were thrilled with an outing to Hayward, for it meant visits to all the intriguing shops: the dark, narrow aisles of Olson’s Brothers for groceries; Pioneer Drugs for poison ivy lotion; and Wickland’s Hardware for more of the fuses that, with so many of us at the cabin, we were always blowing. Like a bobbing batch of curious ducklings, we happily followed Wood
y’s red head down Main Street.
Best of all, we sometimes would be allowed to roam around a bit by ourselves and check out the “Talking Indian” in front of the five-and-dime, get an ice cream treat at the drugstore soda fountain, or purchase a beaded deerskin coin wallet emblazed with Hayward at the souvenir store with some saved quarters.
In the meantime, the laundry was piling up.
With seven people and no washer and dryer, Woody made the long drive—again, with her five children piled in the station wagon—out to a farm in the country where a family operated a laundry service in their garage. Several days later, we headed back to pick up our many loads of sheets, towels, and clothes all neatly wrapped in brown paper bundles and tied with string.
Up until around 1953, Woody gamely vacationed at the cabin with three small children and only kerosene lanterns for lights. She even ironed my sister’s and my dresses for Moody’s square dances with an iron warmed on the wood-burning stove. But after a bear scared her one night when she was alone with little Nancy, baby David, and me, she decided it was time for the cabin to be wired for electricity. (Clara, however, felt Wake Robin’s ambience was never the same.)
Woody reads to me and Nancy on the swing, circa 1955.
Communication was another challenge, as our cabin, in keeping with its rustic character, had no phone. On the rare occasions when someone needed to reach us, they called Moody’s and our phone messages were delivered via a chore boy. Consequently, if Woody wanted to invite friends over for sugar cookies and lemonade on the dock, she either had to hike, boat, or send one of us kids to deliver the message. Letter writing became a popular pastime as the only means of communication with friends and family back home.
In addition to these basic workloads, Woody’s annual specialty projects included attacking the lakeshore poison ivy with an arsenal of spray and scythes and devoting hours and hours to refurbishing the sailboat to keep it in seaworthy condition. We often found our mother lying on her back on the cool, mossy ground of the open garage scraping, painting, or varnishing the overturned sailboat.
Not exactly the definition of a vacation by most people’s standards.
Woody cherished the time she had at the cabin no matter what the activity. Like the sunrise she so eagerly woke us up to see, she greeted each day with a glowing passion for woods, water, family, and friends.
Wake Robin: 2008
Her red hair is faded.
Soft white accents her temples like the gentle wisps of clouds on a blue-sky day. Legally blind, she can no longer clearly see her beloved stars or sunrises, and a walker is her steady companion.
It’s been seventy years since Woody first arrived at Wake Robin as a young sweetheart. And except for the excuse of childbirth, she has rarely missed a summer—even after being widowed at age fifty-six more than thirty years ago.
For Woody, the love of a Northwoods adventure continues to beckon.
Her list of accomplishments over the years is a testament to her goal-setting determination: she canoed down the Brule at age seventy-eight; drove 800-plus miles from Ohio to the cabin by herself for twenty years until age eighty-one; swam in the crisp waters of Lake Superior on almost annual excursions until age eighty-two (it only counted if your head went under!); picnicked on the islands until age eighty-six; and at age eighty-eight willed herself to climb shakily down to the shore to get into a pontoon boat numerous times just for the chance to ride out on the lake and see the shoreline once again.
And to her friends and family, she is still the party queen. Lit by kerosene lamps on the porch, Woody’s gracious fare and her cheerful hospitality are a welcoming delight to all who visit.
For the past decade, however, my sisters, Nancy and Mary, and I have taken on roles as Woody’s designated drivers, cabin companions, and, most important, activity assistants. Woody’s whirlwind social schedule, which includes visiting with friends or having them over—sometimes with as many as four gatherings in a day—keeps us on the move from the time we arrive until the time we leave weeks later. Reading on the swing or napping on the porch are still elusive pastimes.
As each year rolls by, though, Woody knows that her cherished time at Wake Robin is drawing to a close. Each year, toward the end of her vacation, she will softly announce, “This is probably my last summer. I don’t know if I’ll make it back.” And so when it is finally time to leave at the end of another magnificent stay, our farewells to the lake and cabin and each other become harder and more poignant.
And so, as has become our custom on the morning of departure, my mother, sisters, and I stand in a circle on our sun-dappled cabin porch surrounded by the trees we know and love, and, with the whisper of soft waves lapping the shore, we hold each other’s hands and one by one go around our little circle, offering a prayer of thanks:
“Thank you, God, especially for the beauty of your creation: the lakes, the woods, the stars, the moon, the sunrises, the sunsets, and the loon’s lovely music that have meant so much to us.”
“Lord, thank you for the gift of renewal to body, mind, and spirit, and for the clear sense of your ever-loving presence.”
“Thank you for the opportunity and blessing to be all together again, for wonderful lake friends, and for all the fun, safe, and happy times we’ve shared.”
“Thank you, God, for this little log cabin in the woods that we have cherished for so many, many years.”
Then, shaking a little love around our clasped hands, we sing the old scout song:
“Oh, the Lord is good to me, / And so I thank the Lord, / For giving me the things I need, / The sun and the rain and the apple seed, / The Lord is good to me.”
With tears, hugs, and kisses, we take one last look around the cabin and say good-bye. The packed car is waiting. It is time to go.
When the Seitzes sold Moody’s Camp in 1967 and the big bell stopped ringing its fond farewells, we replaced it with our own tradition by clanging cowbells and shouting, “Happy trails! Happy trails!”
And so each year we send each other off with this wild racket. There is no finer way to leave the lake than to the happy shouts of beloved voices and the joyful ringing of bells echoing through the woods. As the car pulls around the bend with happy honks, Woody smiles and waves. She never looks back. As always, she turns and faces forward with optimism and hope. After all, another adventure just might be down the road.
She’s sure of it.
In memory of “Woody”
Eleanor Alice Shumaker Oatman, 1919–2010
Heading Up North: A Journey in Five Acts
Circa 1959
“There’s a long, long trail a-winding into the land of my dreams …”
—Stoddard King
Act I: Packing Up
SCENE 1
No one slept. Throughout the night we tossed and turned.
Outside the screens of our wide-open windows, cicadas sang the sweet song of summer, but as a lullaby, it did no good. The warm, humid air of an Illinois July night hung like a damp blanket across our bodies. Our suitcases stretched open at the foot of our beds, waiting for a sibling’s bottom to sit on it and snap it shut.
Caches of Juicy Fruit gum and forbidden Archie and Veronica comic books were tucked away in discreet brown paper bags. Our beaded, deerskin coin purses, imprinted with Hayward and loaded with a tumble of small change, sat on our dresser tops ready to be stuffed into the back pockets of our shorts. We were ready. Dawn could not come fast enough.
We were going to the cabin.
My older sister Nancy, twelve, and my nine-year-old self lay in our twin beds, the sheets kicked off, whispering our excitement:
“I can’t wait to jump off the dock into that cold water.”
“And sleep on the porch.”
“And go to the square dance.”
“And picnic on the island.”
“And see what friends are there.”
On we jabbered.
Down the hall we could hear our two younger bro
thers, David, seven, and Tom, five, knocking against the wall and laughing. Our two-year-old baby sister, Mary, had been put to bed in her crib in our parents’ room hours ago. The green illuminated dial of my Mickey Mouse watch told me it was past midnight, but the soft sounds of my father putting away pots and pans and my mother closing cupboard doors continued on in the kitchen, lending a muffled cadence to the night.
As the moisture-misted stars spun slowly over us in a haze of humidity, we finally fell into a fitful slumber, the hours ticking slowly by until the sound of our father’s gentle voice suddenly pulled us from our topsy-turvy dreams of woods and water into the real adventure of the day.
SCENE 2
“Uppy-uppy time!” rang out our father’s cheerful voice. “Time to start packing the car!”
Nancy and I lay still for just a moment listening to the Aurora College church bells ring off the quarter hour, astonished that the sun was already peeking through our windows. Then, in the hope of an early start, we flew out of bed in a competition to beat the other to the bathroom.
One by one, my brothers and sisters and I stumbled into the kitchen, helping ourselves to the oatmeal bubbling on the stove courtesy of our father. Looking out the window from the long kitchen table, we could see that he had already turned our copper-colored, white-trimmed station wagon with its scooped-out tailfins around and backed it down the driveway. The rear door hung open like the jaw of a hungry bear waiting for our wares. We were quick to oblige.
Like a bunch of busy beavers, we scurried back and forth from house to car, loading all our essentials. Our flurry of activity soon began to resemble an 8 mm movie in fast forward. In went pillows, suitcases, fishing rods, tennis rackets, sheets, towels, extra shoes, bags of groceries, books, games, canoe paddles, life jackets, hats, tools, and a loose assortment of eclectic items that seven family members felt were a “necessity” for a sojourn to the woods.
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