Return to Wake Robin

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  One cabin honeymoon, three great sons, two lovely daughters-in-law, four precious granddaughters, one adorable grandson, and forty-seven summers on the lake later, I asked my husband of forty-two years what he loved most about that first visit. Without skipping a beat, he answered, “That you were there.”

  Dave and I share some teenage dreams on Big Spider Lake, 1965.

  Like the flat tire on that long ago night, thump-thump-thump beats my happy heart.

  Lake Lights

  “For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.”

  —Vincent van Gogh

  The lake is ringed in darkness.

  No cabin lights twinkle from across the shore. No glaring garage spotlights fill the forest with their blinding fluorescence. Instead, only the trees’ feathery branches are silhouetted against the starry sky.

  For on this particular night, the electricity is out.

  Feeling graced with this opportunity to view the lake in complete darkness, we make a beeline for the dock and settle ourselves upon its hard wooden planks now dry and wave scented. Our imaginations transport us back through the ages. Like sailors navigating by stars on the ancient seas, we look heavenward in awe and wonder.

  Here before us is how the lake looked before it was settled. Here is what the Ojibwe saw as they camped along its shore. Here is God’s creation as it was at the beginning of time in all its natural loveliness. Amazed by the grandeur, we gaze up at this same firmament and sense its sacredness.

  Blinking and twinkling, a multitude of shining stars wink back at us from the black sphere above. The Milky Way cleaves the heavens with its flowing silver stream. A white crescent moon hangs low and pendulous in the western sky. So bright and strong are the constellations that their images float upon the smooth, dark lake, which serves as a mirror doubling their glory.

  There flies a shooting star! And there another, following as though in a game of starlight tag.

  Natural lake lights in their many forms have endlessly enchanted us.

  Glorious golden sunrises and rosy red sunsets draw us to their splendor. In between, we dock dream for hours, staring out at glistening waters or up at the wisps of ever-changing cloud patterns swirling and floating like sailing ships in the blue above.

  For us, sky watching brings a calming contentment like none other.

  When sunlight breaks through the trees at storm’s end, we dash to the dock to see if we can catch a rainbow. If we are lucky enough to be rewarded with an arch of pink, purple, and gold stretching over the retreating grayness of a storm-swept sky, we stand mesmerized.

  When northern lights shoot their eerie green iridescence skyward in undulating waves, once again we stumble down dark steps to the shore and scan the horizon, captivated by this dance. Humbled by its brilliance, we become acutely aware of this gift of life that is so briefly, blessedly ours here on Earth.

  Perhaps, however, it is the common, ordinary twilight that speaks to me the most.

  Summer after summer, I have watched the end-of-the-day metamorphosis with welcoming anticipation, never tiring of its subtle beauty. As the red sun slips behind the darkening emerald treetops, there is a fleeting moment when pale pink dusk covers the sky like the inside sheen of a shell. Across the lake, the forest flares up golden like an angel’s halo, glowing one last time before its light, too, begins to fade, and a grayish blue good-night washes the sky.

  There comes with the twilight a quiet.

  It descends softly over the forest; there is no rush or hurry. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, varying hues of deepening amethyst permeate the sky, luring one into a peaceful trance, a spiritual settling of the soul.

  From the cabin’s porch swing, I have swayed year after year across the decades, mesmerized by the twilight’s shifting shades. As a little girl swinging and reading in the dim light of kerosene lamps, I felt comfort with the changing luminance around me. As a young mother rocking, I rested in its glow, listening to the low, lilting voices of my three sons playing games with their father inside the cabin, their happiness echoing out to me in the dropping temperature of the night.

  Wake Robin’s porch swing, circa 1960s, offered a serene spot from which to watch twilight spread across the sky.

  And now, as a grandmother gently gliding, the twilight wraps me in the warmth of tender memories, its radiance a reassuring bridge from the past to the future, as a new generation discovers the joy of lake lights.

  Somewhere down the shoreline a soft laugh floats through the forest. A loon sings its love song, serenading the night.

  Finally, the dusky purple twilight turns to black and a hushed silence fills the air. Through the treetops, a single silver star sparks the sky. One by one, others begin to join it, igniting the darkness with their twinkling glory and lighting the way to tomorrow’s dawn.

  Leaving the Lake

  “The real significance of the wilderness is a cultural matter. It is far more than hunting, fishing, hiking, canoeing. It has to do with the human spirit.”

  —Sigurd F. Olson

  It is quiet now.

  Only the sound of lapping waves is left. They rock upon the shore soothingly, easing the loneliness that is as palpable as a heavy fog.

  Where for days there was noisy laughter, there is now only calm. Where for hours there was continuous activity—swimming, boating, card playing—there is now only stillness. Where once there were endless meals on the make, there is now only a clean and tidy kitchen.

  The sailboat is off its mooring, the sails wrapped and stored, the boats pulled up, the inner tubes put away, the dock chairs back on shore, the car packed.

  Like a Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair, how the time together flew!

  In a flurry of bell ringing, you sent off your loved ones one by one, and, now, the void that their leaving creates makes you want to weep. And sometimes you do.

  Shortly, it will be time for you to leave as well, but, for a moment, you take a rest from your closing duties to glide on the porch swing, replaying the cherished memories of lake and cabin time that have ended all too soon.

  In truth, sometimes amid all the commotion of being together, you longed for a peaceful moment. But now that it has come, your heartbeat hangs in the air, resonating like the last, lone note of a moving musical performance.

  For you know the chance for another gathering will not be repeated for some time, and, so, as if it were a reprise of a symphony, you replay and savor in your mind all that you experienced together. A loon’s call is your accompaniment; the rhythmic ripples of a duck’s wake your beat; the soft breeze your baton. The picnics, the parties, the friends, the swimming, the sunrises, the starlight blend in an encore.

  For a moment, time stands still in solemn sacredness.

  But now it is time for you to depart as well. Time to turn the key and lock the door and leave the loons to glide and the eagles to soar in uninterrupted tranquillity. It is their time for solitude.

  You know that no matter how long the time until your return, whether it is weeks or months or even a year or more, it will always seem too distant. And when you finally do come back, turn the key, and walk into the cabin’s welcoming mustiness, you know, feel, sense, as though the cabin is a living breathing thing that has been waiting for you, for love and happiness to fill its rooms once more. In that instant, it is as though two hearts beat as one.

  But now it is time to go.

  And so you say your farewells, glancing around at all that you hold dear: the gentle-eyed deer over the mantle, the green breadbox with its painted maiden, the fireplace hearth dusted with a filigree of ashes from the final fire, the faded hats of beloved earlier generations still hanging on the wall.

  For a second, you imagine the cabin without you—the daylight and its shifting shadows, the hush of a purple twilight, the silver streams of moonlight—and you are filled with peace.

  With a heavy sigh, you walk out the door and turn the key in the lock. The brilli
ance of a blue sky, the flickering sunlit leaves of the emerald forest, and the sparkling lake seem to engulf you with a parting embrace, for, often, no day is lovelier than the one on which you leave.

  Abruptly, as if saying farewell, a loon’s haunting call breaks the loneliness of departure. Another answers. Then all is still.

  Till we meet again, dear cabin, I’ll see you in my dreams.

  Epilogue

  “This little corner of the earth smiles to me beyond all others.”

  —Homer

  Eighty-three years and five generations later, Wake Robin is still here.

  Like the trillium, the lovely three-pointed-star wildflower for which it is named, our affection for this little log cabin in the woods blooms perennially.

  But why? What is it that draws us back year after year? What is it that kindles our spirits and makes us long for it even in our dreams?

  Why is it that we keep the same log furniture, antiques, blue Spode china, metal beds, and kerosene lamps that our grandmother Clara picked out in 1929? Why don’t we switch out the 1950s fishing poles suspended from hooks that line the living room wall, the battered copper teakettle, the faded braided-wool rugs?

  What is it about the green breadbox stashed with nuts, nails, and matches; Ted Moody’s eight-point buck; and the open cupboard’s wooden sides with pencil marks designating the climbing height of each new generation that makes us persist in keeping them? Why don’t we give up the old porch swing, the rustic tin shower, the dented green canoe, or aluminum fishing boat and trade it all in for something more modern, efficient, and trendy?

  Some might say we are overly sentimental, that we cling to a vanished era, that the cabin is a museum to the past. But I think not. There is a wonderful authenticity in being surrounded by living history, to know that those who loved and laughed before us shared the same simple joys and pleasures. Not only do we relish these treasured charms, but we also know from experience that it is all we want and need. By choice, our cabin remains the same. And that is exactly how we like it.

  Consequently, by today’s standards, Wake Robin appears humble.

  No big-screen movies, high-speed Internet, video games, or DVDs fill its rooms. In fact, it was a big step to even add electricity in the 1950s.

  Heading down to the lake for a swim on a hot day is a cherished and frequent activity.

  In the early 1980s, we succumbed to further modernization by installing a telephone when a fourth generation was added to the roster. Hauling my three little boys 15 miles down the road to Dow’s Corner Bar and Bait shop and then stuffing all of us into the roadside phone booth to call their dad working back home was the final straw.

  A TV is not even an afterthought.

  Regretfully, in the early 2000s we had to tear down our vintage log garage with its storeroom, guest sleeping area, icehouse/wood shed, long-ago outhouse, and two car stalls—a jack-of-all-trades buildings if there ever was one. It broke our hearts. Aging logs and lack of restoration funds were the culprits; a new log garage that blends with the cabin makes a fine replacement.

  And so, Wake Robin’s rustic simplicity continues.

  For us, when the cabin’s twig curtain rods are festooned with fragrant pine boughs and colorful wildflower bouquets grace its rooms; when coffee perks in the old tin pot and familiar aromas from the cast-iron skillet fill the cozy, sky-lit kitchen; and when a fire glows from the hearth and the kerosene lamps are lit, there is no place lovelier.

  Perhaps Ben Mellinger, one of our father’s lifelong college friends and a frequent visitor to the cabin summed it up best, “I’ve seen lots of places that are bigger and fancier, but no place more charming.”

  The fifth generation carries on the tradition of jumping through the cabin window onto porch beds.

  To say we tend to agree is a vast understatement.

  The lake, however, has changed. Similar-era log cabins have been torn down for bigger, more modern homes; screaming Jet Skis have replaced the sweet squeak of oarlocks; docks are no longer simple, green wooden affairs but wheeled metal contraptions side-saddled with awkward boat lifts; big-boat waves have eroded the islands’ perimeters; and high-speed motors have usurped the puttering purr of small fishing boats leisurely crossing the lake.

  Gone, too, are the once frequent moonlight howls of the wolves from the north wetlands of Big Spider; vanished are the rowboats full of fishing families anchored off the island points at dusk; no longer are docks bedecked with sunbathers or circled with swimmers.

  And yet, for the most part, the lake and much of its wild, pristine beauty is thankfully still intact, allowing for the traditions we so love to continue. Although times have changed, what remains is a calming familiarity, the surround sounds of nature, and, for each of us, a strong sense of self.

  By the time my three sons and their two cousins were born in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the Moody’s Camp resort community as we knew it was long gone. No longer did square dances or lodge dinners offer an opportunity for lake friends, resort guests, and locals to gather. In the blink of an eye, a whole neighborhood’s way of life dispersed.

  My granddaughter Elena about to enter my arms and Big Spider Lake.

  A new era was in the making.

  Despite the changes, all that we cherished and held dear was still there to pass on to the fourth generation, and so we eagerly introduced them to those joys. Perhaps most importantly, the experiences this fourth generation shared at the lake and cabin became a strong part of their childhoods and who they grew up to be: young adults with imaginations, intellectual curiosity, confidence, a love of nature, an appreciation of simplicity, and a strong spiritual connection to God’s creation.

  “It is certainly wonderful to be up here and all so very restful,” wrote my father in 1940, after coming Up North with his mother from his job in Chicago. “No horns, streetcars or stoplights to worry about. … I had a wonderful sleep and feel so very rested today. I feel like a new person.”

  How true his words are for many of us today, seventy-two years later.

  Of course, all has not been perfect.

  It is not easy for multiple families to share a single cabin in the woods, no matter how much you love it or each other. Despite our best efforts, there have been hurts, disagreements, frustrations, differences, misunderstandings, and heartaches. And yet we have persevered. Perhaps these personal challenges brought us to a deeper understanding of the complexities of each other’s hearts.

  Three sisters (left to right: Mary, me, and Nancy) on Picnic Island

  For one of the main reasons that we continue to cherish this small cabin is that it is a reminder of the values we treasure: the joy and healing power of nature; the stewardship of God’s natural world; the ability to share, compromise, and get along in a small space; the act of listening; the art of forgiving.

  But mostly, why do we love it so?

  Because of you, you dearly beloved family, you cherished friends. Your luminance, your light, your love, your laughter shone in this little corner of the earth, and, in the words of Robert Frost, that has made all the difference.

  And now, beyond belief, members of a fifth generation are starting to dip their tiny toes into Big Spider Lake, lift their heads at a loon’s call, look for eagles, and watch the pine needles swaying in the wind. Gratefully, my sons and daughters-in-law love the lake as much as we do and have chosen to carry on the traditions, while adding a few of their own, so that even my five little grandchildren have felt and sensed the joys. It didn’t take long. Amazingly, four years ago, when Lily Clara—the namesake of her great-great grandmother—was just a tiny toddler, she greeted her grandfather Dave back home after a shared trip to the lake by immediately asking him, “Go to cabin?”

  Already she remembered. Already the anticipation was there to go back to the place where there is no time, the place where—if only in our hearts—we are once more all together again.

  Marnie O. Mamminga has vacationed every summer on Big
Spider Lake near Hayward, Wisconsin. Born and raised in the Chicago area, she attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where she earned undergraduate and master’s degrees in English. Over the years she raised three sons, taught junior high and high school English, and worked as a freelance writer and columnist. Her publishing credits include the Chicago Tribune, Reader’s Digest, the Christian Science Monitor, Lake Superior Magazine, and several Chicken Soup for the Soul books. She has been married to her high school sweetheart for more than forty years and is so very grateful that her grandchildren love the Northwoods as much as she does.