Return to Wake Robin

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  And it wasn’t.

  Although the new owners were kind and pleasant, they quickly altered the resort to fit their purposes. Early on, they changed from the all-inclusive American Plan cabins with meals in the lodge to housekeeping with a modified American Plan, thus giving guests options and thereby ending the daily gatherings of everyone for fine meals in the pine-festooned dining room. Ended also were the happy square dances that brought lake friends and families together in joyous camaraderie. Gone, too, was the availability of many other services that had been graciously extended to guests and neighboring private cabin owners.

  But much more unsettling than the disappearance of the meals, the hospitality, or the amenities was the sorrowful scattering of friendships. Like a prize musky on a fishing line that suddenly breaks free, in a nanosecond, the resort’s unique sense of community was lost.

  Before long, the resort was sold again, and the new owners made the severing of the bonds complete by gradually selling off the cabins as condos.

  Perhaps all of this was inevitable, part of what would eventually be the trend for almost all the chain of Spider Lake resorts. With the introduction of Disney World, family cruise ships, and attainable airfare to exotic locals such as Hawaii, a Northwoods resort for many may have begun to seem too antiquated. But for those of us who lived it, nothing could have been finer than the elegant simplicity of a woodland camp scented with the musty fragrance of forest. For the Seitzes, who made each journey there feel like a ride on a shooting star, it was heaven.

  How we wished the charming hand-painted sign that hung over the dining room buffet and greeted guests with its daily reminder, “Here there is no time,” were true. If, only for a moment, we could hear the music of the camp again: the clatter of the kitchen dishes, the enticing aroma of dinner cooking, the cheerful greetings of friends in the lodge, the melodious ring of the chore boys’ bell, and the sweet strains of an accordion drifting through the night.

  But just like the loveliness of Dick and Lucile’s square dance waltz, it ended all too soon.

  The Lodge Beckons

  1923–1967

  “This is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.”

  —Willa Cather

  It was the heart of the camp.

  Low slung, dark and rambling, its inner sanctum beat with a life of its own, supplying all who entered with renewal, rest, laughter, reflection, and camaraderie.

  It was the perfect gathering place.

  On damp, rainy days, it was filled with cozy chatter: the crimson glow of the fire dispelling the gloomy weather and offering warmth and light for the knitters, readers, and card players who circled its massive stone fireplace.

  On sunny days, the cool shadows of the log walls offered a quiet respite from the hustle of lake activities as guests passed through to the office in search of a new lure, a cold Coke, or a letter from home.

  Three times a day, its dining room was a cacophony of cheerful voices, fabulous food, and gracious greetings as resort workers, guests, and visiting lake neighbors joined in equal friendship, regaling each other with their latest tale of adventure.

  And on square dance nights, no place was finer. Music, light, and laughter pulsated out of its walls and windows. It had a certain magnetism, and we were drawn to it as if it were the North Star.

  It was the axis around which its thirteen guest cabins and neighboring private cabins revolved. It was the lodge. And anytime we had a chance to go there, we went.

  The green-trimmed Moody’s Camp log lodge, seen here in the 1950s and ’60s, was a popular gathering place for guests as well as lake neighbors.

  Franklin and Vera Hobart Collection

  The Lodge, Circa 1959

  “I need a loaf of bread and some milk,” our mother announced. “Who wants to go to the lodge to get it?”

  “I will!” we answered at once.

  “Why don’t you pick up some eggs, too,” she added.

  Thinking quickly, we four older siblings suggested we all go together in order to share such a delicate load. Thinking just as quickly, our mother, amazed at such sudden harmony and seizing the moment for some much needed quiet with just baby Mary, agreed.

  There were no errand grumblings from this crowd, for something memorable was sure to be happening at the lodge, and we were eager to discover the drama of the day.

  Would a gleaming fresh musky hang in huge grandeur from the garden’s hook and scale? Could we sneak into the bait house to peek at the minnows and black leeches swirling in the cold, gurgling water of the tin tanks? Or would the log icehouse be unlatched so we could climb upon the mounds of sawdust and feel the cool breath of last winter’s lake ice upon our faces?

  It mattered not whether the action was subtle or sublime theater: we were never disappointed.

  In a flash, we were on our way. Forgetting our mother’s golden rule, such was our excitement, we let the back door slam. Its loud clap echoed through the woods like an encore and, thankfully, muffled our mother’s scolding.

  We were off!

  Up our log-and-fieldstone steps we scrambled, the delicate sweep of maidenhair fern brushing our legs like a spider’s touch, the cascading myrtle rippling over the log rises like a waterfall.

  At the top of our gravel driveway, we pondered our first decision. Which route to take? The “low road” with its gentle curve and deep gravel ruts offering a view of the swamp and a glimpse at the dancing light of the not-too-distant thoroughfare? The secretive, seldom used “high road” with its shoulder-high banks dotted with mossy rocks and the opportunity to perhaps capture a horny toad or surprise a giant-footed snowshoe rabbit? Or maybe the wooded path past the four resort cabins on the hill, where opportunities for voyeurism into the lives of the current guests awaited us?

  One of us became the leader by pulling in a favorite direction, and the anticipation of our adventure squashed any sibling squabbling that might normally have ensued.

  Walking quietly together, we took in the details of our hike: scattered clusters of swaying purple phlox; the rosy insides of chipped and cracked granite rocks sparkling in the sunshine; patches of emerald moss silky soft to the touch; the curvy crevices of tree roots, where surely, our imaginations told us, elves and fairies lived.

  Meandering down these slopes, we came to the rising hill of the camp. Like young deer pausing in the shadows to watch and wonder what was ahead, we slowed our collective gait and canvassed the scene. Seeing no one on the tennis courts or picnicking by the fieldstone grill, we raced each other to the rope swing hanging in the still shade of an oak’s towering branches, just begging for a ride on its well-worn wooden seat.

  The first one there took a running start, sweeping the swing into a graceful, long, deep arch. With a sibling pushing hard, the swinger rode up into the sunlit blue air like a dragonfly on a wind current, our hearts silently singing the old Robert Louis Stevenson poem our mother had taught us: “How do you like to go up in a swing, / Up in the air so blue? / Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing, / Ever a child can do!”

  Up, up, up the rider rose. Higher than the fieldstone grill, higher than the lodge roof, higher, or so it seemed, than the treetops. Then back down again for another rising loop with shutter-speed glimpses of the shimmering lake beyond.

  “Push harder!” the swinger ordered to offset a sibling’s lackadaisical effort. “I want to go higher!”

  When each of us had taken a turn, and we were dizzy with descent and fatigued with pushing, we wobbled away to the allure of our errand at hand.

  The lodge beckoned.

  Walking along the circular driveway, we quietly passed by the lodge kitchen, the hub of the resort. Here the signature scent of the daily cooking wafted through the screened windows. The sounds of clattering pans, soft voices, and quiet laughter drifted out from within like the cozy hum of a happy beehive.

  Self-consciously, we wondered who might be watching us from the big kitchen table. Adorned with a blue-and-w
hite-checked oilcloth, a smattering of coffee cups, and a few well-used ashtrays, the kitchen table was a welcomed spot for the resort’s fishing guides, cooks, chore boys, cabin girls, and owners Dick and Lucile Seitz to sit and take a break.

  Glancing up at the cast-iron bell hanging over the door, we were grateful to be newly arrived and to know that it would be a while yet before the bell’s heavy timbre would ring its mournful farewell. For when it tolled for thee, it was as sad as a loon’s lonesome call on an empty lake.

  But most of the time, the bell’s joyous ring reverberated through the woods and out onto the lake announcing meal times, celebrating newly caught fish, and signaling for chore boys with their individually numbered rings to come running.

  Rounding the corner, we were greeted by a sunny garden encircling a tall log post, its huge hook and fish scale buzzing with the blue iridescence of sunlit flies just waiting for the next big catch to arrive. Dainty yellow butterflies danced amid the orange Turk’s-cap lilies like partners executing a snappy square dance, allemande left.

  “Hi, there!” came a friendly voice from behind, startling us out of our botanical reverie.

  Tommy Seehuetter, one of the resort’s fishing guides, was just exiting the bait house with a bucket full of minnows in one hand and a slew of fishing poles in the other.

  “Hi Tommy!” we called as we watched his tall, trim figure stride down the path to a waiting client at the lake.

  Furtively, we glanced around to see if Eddie the Guide was in the vicinity. With his tilted triangular cap shading his eyes, a gun on his hip, and a knife in his boot, Eddie’s swaggering walk and silent charisma always created for us an intimidating aura of mystery.

  But he wasn’t around. Or at least we didn’t see him. We moved on to the lodge’s main entrance with its hand-painted “Ted Moody’s Camp” sign hung to the side and hurried to enter its cool, dim shadows.

  Swinging open the large screen door, we entered what seemed like an enchanted aerie.

  Moody’s lodge living area, circa 1950s and ’60s, with its baby grand piano, fieldstone fireplace, and screened porch, provided a delightful place for guests to gather.

  Courtesy of Dick Seitz

  On cool, rainy days, we pushed a second door, a heavy wooden one, open as well, and walked into the golden glow of a crackling fire dancing in the massive fieldstone fireplace. Its cozy light and warmth fanned out to the handful of guests sequestered there on comfy sofas and chairs.

  But on hot, sunny days, guests were mostly down at the lake or out fishing, and we had the place all to ourselves. Those were the best.

  Tiptoeing in, we stood quietly for a moment to absorb the room’s enticing atmosphere: the sprawling black bear stretched above the arched entry into the dining room; the antlered deer head over the fireplace mantle, its warm brown eyes seeming to greet us; the baby grand piano sitting regally in the corner waiting for a song; the mounted musky on the burnished log walls, its greenish gold scales zigzagging in the dim light as though it were still swimming in the deep darkness of the lake.

  Although we were alone in this inner sanctum, the lodge seemed to emanate the love and laughter of all who had gathered there over the decades: it was as if we sensed the spirits of Ted and Myrtle, their guests, our grandparents Erle and Clara Oatman, and the many friends and families who had walked these floors before us. Blowing softly in from the porch, a gentle lake breeze swirled all the history and memories of the past together into a strong aura of peace and happiness.

  Spellbound, we gradually moved under the wide, curved entrance cut through the log wall and into the dining room. In late afternoon, lake light filtered through the windows, casting the room in an amber glow. Rustic, white birchbark table legs stretched beneath linen tablecloths already neatly set for dinner. Centerpieces of wildflowers in hues of yellows, reds, and purples sparked the room with woodland ambience, and massive boughs of green balsam hung from the rafters, their piney fragrance suggesting Christmas had arrived early.

  All was in readiness for the evening meal.

  Scents drifted in from the kitchen, making our mouths water. We longed to come up for the scrumptious dinner and festive fellowship, but because our family of seven was an expensive lot to feed, those dining moments were reserved for special occasions such as my August birthday, the only one of our summer stay. It couldn’t come soon enough.

  As we enviously admired the preparations for the dining room’s dinner, stuffed wildlife eyed us from all around the room: mounted muskies lined the walls; two stuffed loons—one in summer coat and one in winter—guarded the fireplace; a raccoon winked from a log rafter, and a skunk perched slyly in a corner. More rack-studded deer added to the decor.

  Traditions at the lodge, pictured circa 1950s and ’60s, included pine-bedecked beams, wildflower centerpieces, and delicious meals. The birch table legs contributed to the rustic elegance.

  Over the buffet hung our favorite sign: the clock with no hands that read, “Here there is no time.” It only confirmed what we already knew to be fact in these magical Northwoods.

  The “Here there is no time” clock, which sported no hands, hung in the lodge dining room, reminding guests to leave their troubles behind and enjoy all that the camp had to offer. Photo circa 1950s.

  Courtesy of Dick Seitz

  Checking the mail holder, we looked through the community pile for any letters to us: a sweet note from our grandmother Clara, a funny greeting from our father working back home, or a newsy note from a friend with the latest summer gossip.

  “What can I do for you today?” came a voice from the kitchen doorway, once again shocking us out of our daydreams.

  Appearing in his trademark crisp khakis and collared shirt, Dick Seitz, as usual, was on the scene, even attentive to the needs of four young children on an errand. Despite his busy resort agenda, he nevertheless waited patiently for one of us to gather our courage and speak.

  “Our mother wants to know if you have an extra loaf of bread and some milk that we can buy,” Nancy, as oldest, asked.

  “I think we can see to that,” Dick replied, looking us over with smiling amusement. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Awaiting our goods, we studied the intriguing elements of the small office tucked at the back of the dining room. A vast selection of fishing poles; lures of every shape, color, and size, including Eddie the Guide’s handmade “Eddie’s Bait”; postcards; and a variety of sweatshirts emblazoned with Moody’s Camp covered every inch of its walls.

  But what really caught our attention was the glass-topped candy counter filled with chocolate Hershey bars, Juicy Fruit gum, Butterfingers, Snickers, Buns, and an array of other tempting choices. Anchoring the corner directly behind it squatted the square Coca Cola cooler, its red sides dripping cold beads of sweat; its slushy ice insides holding chilled brown-bottled Leinenkugel beer, Orange Crush, grape drink, root beer, Coke, and Dr Pepper.

  As if this wasn’t enough enticement, just around the corner beckoned an open-windowed ice cream bar brimming with choice-defying flavors: orange, raspberry, or lime sherbets; creamy vanilla; rich dark chocolate; and Nancy’s exotic favorite, coffee.

  Surely volunteering to help our mother, the arduous hike, and our well-behaved efforts warranted one of these treats?

  Returning with the bread and milk, Dick set them on the counter.

  “Anything else?” he asked with a grin, knowing full well what was coming next.

  “I’ll take a double-dip coffee ice cream cone,” Nancy announced.

  Encouraged by her bold lead, my brothers and I pounced.

  “I’ll take an Orange Crush,” piped David.

  “Make mine grape,” added little Tom.

  “And I’d like a Bun bar,” I added.

  “Please!” we each remembered at the last minute.

  Smiling, Dick only nodded as he gathered up our requests one by one.

  For, if the truth be known, this was our sibling secret. Baby Mary was out of luck
.

  “Charge it,” Nancy said authoritatively.

  Obligingly, Dick pulled out our running tab from the resort’s wooden file account box on the counter and added our goodies, milk, and bread to its tally. (Our total bill at the end of our stay always surprised our father, such were the accumulations of our numerous “rewards.”)

  Savoring our treats, we drifted slowly back through the lodge once again and out into the summer’s bright sunshine.

  “Why, hello Oatmans!” Lucile called as she swung out the kitchen door. “How’s everyone?”

  With her slim figure attired in a chic shorts outfit and her dark hair framing her pretty, smiling face, one would never guess she was the supervisor of the kitchen activities, the help, the laundry, and the cleaning—all laborious camp duties.

  “Fine!” we managed to mutter with our mouths full.

  “Say hello to your mother for me,” she answered, striding away.

  “We will! Thank you!” we each answered, juggling our load of treats, mail, milk, and bread.

  “See you at the square dance!” she said before disappearing into the steamy wisps emanating from the log laundry house across from the garden.

  Choosing separate routes to devour our guilty pleasures, we nevertheless kept an eye on each other’s progress, singing our father’s favorite ditty to each other’s bobbing heads: “I’ll take the low road and you take the high road, and I’ll get to Scotland before ye!”

  Arriving back at the cabin, little Mary gave us envious looks. Unbeknownst to us, telltale signs of our treats stained our lips in faded shades of orange, brown, and grape.

  Luckily, our mother was too busy to notice our transgressions. But she found others.

  “Where are the eggs?” she asked.

  Stunned, we looked at each other.

  “We forgot,” I said.