And yet, I did.
When the time came, she just closed her eyes and nodded. She knew it was coming. I held her hand and we were both silent for a moment.
She didn’t cry. She never cried. Instead, she looked up and bravely sought a silver lining. She recounted all the good times we had had together since she had moved near to me four and a half years ago, thanking me for all that I had done, not only in finding a nursing home but assisting with her care at her retirement home: doctor’s appointments attended, social outings planned, errands run, clothes managed, groceries gathered. All these occasions, though not always easy, had created times for us to be together. And now, especially at this turning point, we were both grateful for them.
“Happiness was ours,” she said. A gift of grace.
It was just what I needed to hear.
And so, to the nursing home she went. Courageous and optimistic.
Although the home turned out to be the perfect place for her, it was a difficult year and a half of slow decline. Hospital stays, dialysis, heart trouble, and near-blindness eventually took their toll. Even so, she remained cheerful and mentally alert to the end.
Despite my best intentions, however, I was not with her when she died.
My fortieth anniversary was approaching, and my sister came up to stay with our mother so that my husband and I could celebrate at our beloved cabin in the Northwoods where we had spent our honeymoon. Before I left, my mother and I hugged goodbye amid the bright flowers and greenery of the nursing home’s outdoor garden. She was happy that I was heading Up North and sent me off with her blessing.
Even so, leaving her was not easy. I had a feeling I would not see her again as I climbed into my car with a heavy heart and waved a final goodbye. As I headed down the road, I looked back in my side-view mirror to see my mother and sister sitting peacefully together in the warm June sunshine.
It is a memory I will always cherish.
She died unexpectedly the day before my anniversary, alone in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. I drove the eight hours home as soon as I heard the news and spent my anniversary picking out her casket with my brother, sister, and husband.
And yet, looking back, I knew my mother was grateful for those final days of life, for that extra time together. And so were my siblings and I.
Despite the many challenges and difficulties, or maybe because of them, we continually sought that silver lining and found it. No matter how dim or dark the days, some sun always broke through in the strong rays of our love for each other. And because of that, even in a nursing home, “happiness was ours.”
Looking for Rainbows
Only a few are left. They are all but gone. Dave, Lucile, Franklin, Vi, George, Tommy, June, Sten, Bob, Woody, and Dick, among others, no longer greet us with their friendly smiles and hugs.
Like loons leaving the lake at the end of summer for distant shores, a cherished generation is drifting away one by one. For those of us who had the good fortune of vacationing with these older friends year after year, it is a mournful, melancholy time when we hear yet another has passed on.
There are many reasons we loved this Depression era and wartime generation, not the least of which are their Northwoods memories of a time before Jet Skis, boat lifts, and megamotors hit the scene. After all, this generation knew the simple pleasures of rowing to the rhythmic squeak of the oarlock, the purr of the 3½-horsepower motor, the golden glow of kerosene lamps.
They are the ones who knew the old love songs, like “Good Night, Irene” and “Shine On, Harvest Moon,” and sang them with gusto around an old lodge piano or on a moonlit dock.
They are the ones who could easily identify the constellations, thrilled at the howl of the wolves, picnicked on the islands in the rain, and partied at each other’s cabins at the drop of a hat. And no matter how often they heard the loons’ flight songs fill the heavens with their harmony, they are the ones who always looked up.
Best of all, they could share these stories with us. And so, as these dear old friends depart the lake and the woods forever, they leave behind a great void. For who will remember? Who will share these simple pleasures of the past? Or perhaps, more importantly, who will care?
As children vacationing at our Northwoods family log cabin in the 1950s and 1960s, we found our parents’ generation to be a huge part of the charm of coming to the lake. They were adults that we looked up to and admired, older friends who were always happy to see us.
And even though they were as old as our parents, or older, we never thought of them that way. When we grew into young adults, it seemed as though the age differences simply melted away. We were their peers. We saw each other as members of the same group of friends—people we looked forward to seeing every summer despite the thirty-year age gaps.
In fact, the age diversity simply enhanced the lake experience for us all. Whether we ran into each other at a fish fry, partied at each other’s cabins, canoed down a river together, or waved to one another from our docks and boats, these older friends added a comforting sense of familiarity to our summer vacations.
In knowing them, we too learned the old love songs, the splendor of a walk through a virgin forest, the joy of organizing an island picnic, the simple pleasures of rowing. They were the ones we turned to with questions about the history of the area’s wildlife, the people, the lakes, the forests. Not only did they have the answers, but with each retelling, they added a little personal history of their own.
Like the sparkling glacial boulder on the road near the cabin that greeted us each summer, this generation was part of the natural landscape. And as much as I hate to admit it, we took these dear older friends for granted, ignoring life’s ticking clock. So it is all the more shocking and sad when one of them passes away. With each departure, a hush falls over the lake like the last waves from a boat’s wake rolling up on a quiet shore.
Lucky for us, several of these older friends have lived well into their eighties and nineties, keeping the proverbial campfire burning not only for our generation but also for the younger one behind us. Because all age groups are included in our lake activities—cabin parties, picnics, boat outings, star gazing—our children love and admire them as much as we do.
With each passing year, the few friends that are left from this generation seem more and more like national treasures. Bill and Ginny are the only couple left. Bill first came to the lake in 1929 as a young boy, and Ginny joined him as his war bride during the 1940s. They have been icons of the area ever since. Married for over sixty-seven years, they now spend their winters in Florida, but with the help of good lake friends and family, and by sheer will and determination, they return to their beloved cabin each summer. It is a thrill when we hear they’ve made it back. For although both are in their nineties and are battling a number of health issues, their positive spirits, humor, and charm continue to delight us at every cabin gathering or supper club outing.
In the backs of our minds, we can’t help but wonder if this year will be their last, and no doubt so do they. Every time we boat by their cabin on the hill, whether or not we can see them behind the windows in their favorite porch chairs, we always honk the boat horn and offer up a big wave. More often than not, they respond by waving exuberantly or flicking their porch light in the dusk to let us know they are there.
When a recent summer came to its usual too-sudden end, underscored by the first hints of autumn’s red and yellow leaves, I baked some cookies and went to see Bill and Ginny before they headed back to Florida. They offered me a chair between them on their porch with its beautiful view of the lake and its pine-studded islands. No wonder they liked to sit there into the long hours of twilight.
Although we had a good chat, there were several moments of quiet when the three of us, lined up in a row like eagles on a branch, just sat in silence, staring out at the wild glory of the lake. At the prospect of saying farewell, we were at a loss for words. Bill had speculated earlier that rain might be comi
ng and he was right. Suddenly, a soft shower began to pinprick the lake and the wind picked up, swirling and brushing the waters into a kaleidoscope of intricate patterns.
From our porch perch, it was mesmerizing to watch nature’s drizzling splendor—its arrival a welcome distraction from the uncomfortable lack of conversation. Finally, in an effort to break the awkwardness of the lengthening silence, I voiced what we all seemed to be thinking: our time together was coming to an end.
“Isn’t it amazing we’ve been able to enjoy all this beauty for so many years?” I asked gently.
“Oh my, yes!” Bill responded, breaking out of his peaceful reverie with gusto. “We’ve been so lucky!”
“It’s wonderful!” Ginny added in her typical good cheer, despite advancing dementia. “Every day here is such a blessing!”
I didn’t hear a trace of melancholy or sadness in their voices as I had expected, only delightful enthusiasm for the gift of the day, for this shared moment of beauty before us.
Suddenly, a glimmer of sun poked through the gray clouds, speckling the dark water and shadowy forest with golden light.
“Maybe we’ll see a rainbow!” Ginny said with a smile as bright as a child’s.
“It might even come down and touch our dock!” Bill teased, breaking the tension and sending all three of us into grateful laughter.
Soon after, we hugged goodbye, and with a heavy heart at another season’s end, I left the sweet familiarity of their old log cabin and headed back to mine. A few scarlet leaves, shaken loose from the rain shower, slowly drifted down from above as I drove through the tunnel of trees along the worn dirt lane. Once again, I wondered if I would ever see these dear friends again. Would they make it back next year?
Would I?
Under the Milky Way
Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.
—HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Midnight Crossing
Tonight the lake is perfectly still. My husband and I fumble along the narrow dock with a single flashlight and carefully climb into the fishing boat. Before us the dark, smooth water sparkles with reflected starlight. It is close to midnight, and the heavens are shimmering with beauty.
We are crossing the lake to retrieve our sixteen-year-old son, who is playing cards with friends at another cabin. He has never crossed the lake alone at night, and, as his nervous parents, we decide to go down and follow him home.
We rarely go out on the lake this late at night, and we are surprised at its loveliness. As we putt slowly along, the moist air brushes gently against our faces. Above is the Big Dipper, huge and magnificent. Nearby sits Cassiopeia in regal glory.
Except for the starlight, it is pitch dark, but I know exactly where I am. In front of us looms the familiar shadow of Picnic Island, where I have shared many a fine lunch of ham sandwiches and green grapes with family and friends. Along the opposite shore, my eyes make out the well-known shapes of neighbors’ cabins.
In the distance up on a hill, I see, dimly, the lights of my family’s 1929 log cabin, Wake Robin. It is the one where my father spent summers, as did I, as did my children, until recently, when my husband and I bought our own cabin at the other end of the lake. By the golden glow filtering through the woods, I guess that my mother and sisters have lit the kerosene lamps on the porch. It feels strange not to be up there with them in cozy familiarity.
As we skim past the outline of my family’s old dock and 1954 fishing boat, my husband turns off the motor and we glide to a stop near a tiny island just offshore. The sudden stillness surprises us. In the quiet of the lake and forest, we can almost hear our hearts beat.
Magically, from out of the woods flows the sweet sound of children’s laughter. From our boat’s vantage point, we can see the teenagers’ silhouettes on our friends’ porch, playing card games, hooting joyously at wins and losses.
Our boat’s arrival signals it is time to say good night. We watch as flashlights begin to bob like blinking fireflies down the wooded path to the lake. Laughter increases as the small parade descends through the darkness and all congregate on a narrow dock.
From this merry commotion a cheerful voice emerges from the darkness.
“Marnie? Is that you?” my friend whispers.
“Hi, Mary!” I whisper back. “Thanks for having the kids over.”
“We’ve had a blast!” she answers.
There is a familiarity to this scene. Our families, both from the same hometown in Illinois, have crossed paths on this Wisconsin lake for over thirty years. When Mary and I were teenagers, our mothers—to our amazement—let us bring along our boyfriends. Those high school sweethearts are our husbands now, and memories as strong as fishing lines weave our pasts together.
I glance back to my family’s dock and see a light at its end. I know it is my sister waiting for her daughter, just as our protective parents before us did, and by the look of her flickering flashlight, I guess she is turning the pages of her star guide.
As my son starts his motor, three moms and a dad watch with eagle eyes from their separate triangular points as the two teens skirt the water’s edge.
“Can I spend the night at the cabin?” my son calls out as he docks the boat.
“Is that OK, Aunt Nancy?” I call back.
“It’s fine,” she whispers. “There’s a star shower tonight. We’ll stay down and watch awhile.”
We sisters signal a flashlight goodnight in the soft darkness. Heading slowly back across the lake, I remember a year ago how painful it was for me to make this move from Wake Robin, the cherished log cabin of my childhood. In buying a new cabin, I felt as if I was ending an era, deserting my siblings and mother, and depriving my children of a continuing history.
Yet the move was important to my husband, who had long dreamed of owning his own cabin and who hopes to spend some retirement years here. Having shared moments on this lake with him since my sixteenth birthday, I could not have a finer or more loving husband. It was my love for him that helped me make the crossing.
But in the beauty of this night I realize that, despite the move, we are all still connected. Love and friendship and family still light the way no matter where we are. Our move has brought not a severance of the past, but an opportunity for new beginnings and experiences to share as we journey into the future from our different points of light.
As we cross the lake under the grandeur of the midnight sky, a sense of peace, gratitude, and God’s presence fills my heart. I breathe the fragrant forest air and watch the starlight’s twinkling reflections on the lake. Above us the Milky Way shines like glitter across the heavens. Within it the Northern Cross sparkles, pointing the way home.
Recycled Dump Days
In the bleak midwinter, in a little hut in a Northwoods forest, sits Betty the Dump Lady. With only the crows for company, she waits patiently in this frozen, plowed clearing for the next visitor to drive up and deposit garbage.
Winter is a slow time. With the tourists long gone and the seasonal residents moved back to their city homes, business has dropped off. No flies buzz, no bees hum, no children’s laughter fills the air as pop cans are launched like missiles into the recycling bin. The thermometer hovers near zero. Even the occasional bear searching for a free meal has disappeared into its den to hibernate. All is crunch-cold quiet.
Summer is a different story. The dump bustles with activity, and Betty the Dump Lady, who is the equivalent of project manager, CEO, and chairman of the board, runs a tight ship.
“Green bottles here. Tin cans over there. Stop! What’s in that bag? Not in my dump!”
Betty commands her operation from an office that reflects her unique and spunky style. A six-by-six wooden shack sits in the center of the ordered garbage arena. It’s festooned on the outside with bouquets of rainbow-colored plastic flowers, a smiling black-and-white plastic skunk, a huge thermometer, and a plaque with the carved-
out motto “Love Grows Here.”
The little hut is Betty’s waiting area until the next visitor appears. Inside, there is just enough room for a radio, a hot plate, a chair with a footrest for Betty’s bad leg, and a small collection of her romance novels.
When our car drives up and pulls to a dusty stop, suspense hangs in the air as we watch and wait for the screen door of the little house to swing open. With a theatrical entrance, out steps Betty the Dump Lady. Dressed in thin, loose old clothes and in her senior years, she walks with slow dignity and a slight limp over to our car to check us out.
“How ya doing?” we ask.
“Oh, not bad,” she replies. “My leg’s bothering me a little bit, but other than that I’m doing OK.”
Her soft voice belies her commanding presence. We are all a little fearful of Betty. Once we forgot to rinse the beer bottles. She sniffed them. Back home they went. Another time we hauled in bags of seaweed from the lake, which we didn’t realize we could not dump there. Same result. You don’t mess with Betty’s dump.
She nods with recognition as we give her our name, and she checks us off her list. Watching with eagle eyes, she follows our movements as we place our garbage in the proper bins. We are careful to follow her instructions implicitly.
Of course, recycled garbage and dump supervisors were not always part of the picture. In the days of my youth (back in the 1950s and early 1960s) during summer visits to our family’s cabin, getting rid of garbage simply meant driving to the township’s official dumping area, a circular dirt driveway off the main road in the woods. Tin cans, vegetable peels, and assorted refuse lay scattered amid the pines, birches, and oaks. Although an eyesore, the area was a smorgasbord for all kinds of wild critters—skunks, crows, raccoons, bears, and the occasional pair of smooching teenagers.
When we were little, my brothers and sisters and I would beg our dad to take us on an evening dump excursion in hopes of seeing a bear. My father would turn his car lights off just as we approached the dump and we’d cruise in. With a dramatic flick of the switch, his car lights flooded the area, often rewarding us with the sight of a fleeing bear’s rump crashing through the woods or, equally as thrilling, two teens in hot embrace in the front seat of their parked car.
On a Clear Night Page 16
