Cabin memories are bittersweet. Mostly sweet and only a bit bitter at the end. It wasn’t actually our cabin. My dad and his friend, John Nace, worked together at the telephone company. Jon purchased some lake property on Upper South Long Lake south of Brainard. Yes, there is a Lower South Long too. A long channel and flowing stream connect the two. Upper South had one resort at the East end. Lower South had a family bar and grill where the lakes connected.
My dad with his farm roots could make about anything. John was eager but had city roots. John had contractor lay a flat cement slab. From there, John and my dad built the rest. Because of their jobs, they had access to telephone poles and crossarms. They had a local sawmill cut the crossarms into 2X4’s for all the framing. The mill cut the cedar poles into beautiful knotty tongue and groove siding. The two men drove a hand-pump well outside of the kitchen. Out back where the forest grew, they dug an outhouse. Summer weekends we’d trailer a load of building supplies to the cabin. We’d work one day and play one day.
Cardboard boxes from refrigerators stapled onto the studs formed the temporary walls. The lot was up a steep bank from the lake. At first a rope we tied between trees gave you something to hold as you scaled the hill. In the second year we replaced the rope with a proper wooden staircase.
No, no running water, but we had electricity for the lights, heater, refrigerator and stove. Mr. Nace had a wife, two sons and a daughter. They usually played for two days and worked none. Mr. Nace said because of all the work out family did, we should treat the cabin like our own.
For many years the cabin was a family gathering point. When my older sister got married and had kids, her family joined us all. When I had a family, we enjoyed the larger family gathering as well. The bitter part came later.
Mr. Nace died of cancer. We kept working on the cabin. Each spring we’d open it up. Each fall, we close it for the winter.
Mrs. Nace didn’t go there anymore. Her kids threw beer parties and trashed the place. My dad tried to buy the cabin, but Mrs. Nace wouldn’t sell. It got to a point where it was falling apart faster than we could repair it. The good times ended. The great memories remain.
Holstein Season
Next door lived a retires Minneapolis Policeman. Mr. Conroy. His wife had died and he drank a lot. After a rain, we’d bail out his boat and sometimes take him fishing.
One deer hunting season, Mr. Conroy had too much to drink. He drove into a farmer’s yard, got out of his car and took aim at a cow. The farmer came running out and stopped him. Conroy insisted the cow was a deer. The farmer agreed to sell him the deer/cow. Conroy shot it and the farmer helped load it into Conroy’s car. The cow’s front legs stuck out the window on one side of the car. It’s hind legs stuck out the other side. Despite his drunkenness, Conroy drove back home, near the St. Paul fairgrounds. He slept all night and most of the next day before he discovered the cow in his car. Rigor mortis made it impossible to simply take the cow out. Mr. Conroy had to hire a butcher to help.
A Shocking Good Time
Dickie, his sister, mom and dad, owned the next cabin. Dickie was physically about 25 and built like a pro-wrestler. Mentally Dickie was maybe six or seven. Strong as an Ox, he was a most gentil soul. His Parents taught him to come home when the honked their car horn. Dickie could have four kids sitting in his big lap as the all listed to one of us older kids read a story. If the car horn honked, kids flew off Dickies lap as he brushed them off and hurried home.
Sometimes we’d all be down at the lake. It was usually one of the Nace kids who would tell Dickie to throw someone in the lake. You could protest and struggle until you were out of breath. If you were the target, it did no good. Dickie would hold you in a bearhug, dangle you over the water at the end of the dock, and listen to you scream while everyone else laughed. He’d grin and drop you in the lake. After his own laugh, he’d wait for someone to tell him who to drop next.
One day Dickie came to the cabin and showed us a hardcover book. He gave it to me first and said I should open it. When I did, my arms trembled, I stiffened and dropped the book. Dickie roared with laughter. It was a trick book. There was silver foil around the edges of the front and back covers. Inside were a couple of batteries. When you opened it, you got a tooth-rattling shock.
Dickie took his book, turned to another one of our group and said, “Here. Open my book.”
Everyone had watched me open it and get shocked. No one else would take the book. So, Dickie walked behind my sister, Vickie. Dickie wrapped his arms around her and grabbed one of her hands in each of his. Waddling over to here I had dropped the book, Dickie bent Vickie and picked the book up. He opened the book, and they both yelled and shook. Dickie, let go. The book landed on the floor again and Vickie would have cried if we all hadn’t laughed.
Dickie picked up the closed book. He grinned and looked for his next victim.
Before he picked out someone new, a car horn honked. Out the door, Dickie charged. We all laughed but were relieved that game was over.
Can Bubble Gum Grow Hair?
Later in life, I was newly married to Phyllis. The family was spending the weekend at the cabin and Phyllis, and I were going to join them. I had a job and had to work Friday so it was close to midnight when we got in the car and started our drive.
Phyllis couldn’t keep her eyes open and soon put her head in my lap and fell asleep. At first, I had the window partly open, but Phyllis complained she was cold, so I closed it. I turned on the radio as low as I could, but Phyllis said the music kept her awake. I turned it off. I had to do something to help me stay alert. I had ‘Double-bubble’ gum. I put abut four sticks in my mouth and chewed them into a huge wad. I dangled it out my mouth. I blew big bubbles, carful not to let them pop and wake my wife.
There wasn’t much traffic at that time of night, but that changed as I got close to Milac Lake. The highway was one lane each direction, curvy and full of traffic. The approaching headlights hurt my eyes, and I was a little on edge from a semi behind me.
I was dangling that wad of gum out my mouth. A van with his high beam on, blinded me. I dropped the gum. Quickly I glanced down and back up. I glanced again. I couldn’t spot the gum. Cautiously used one hand to steer and the other to gently probe for the gum. I couldn’t feel it. I decided it was best to wait until we were stopped.
From the main road a tractor path, basically two ruts, ran behind the row of cabins at that part of the lake. The path was a bumpy ride, no matter how slow you drove. Phylis woke.
“Are we there yet?” she asked.
“We’re on the trail right now.”
“Good,” she said as she sat up and stretched.
At the cabin, I told her we could unpack in the morning and should get some sleep. We quietly went to our bedroom, and both flopped down onto the bed.
For half an hour I fought sleep. Finally, I was sure Phyllis was asleep. Slowly I got out of bed and went into the kitchen. From a drawer, I took a small pair of scissors and a penlight flashlight. In the bedroom, I held the penlight in my mouth and searched Phyllis’s shoulder length brown hair with it’s tiny beam of light. “Ah ha!” the gum.
Like an amateur surgeon, I snipped the hairs that held the gum. When I lifted the gummy wad, a long streamer of hair came with it. I silently cursed myself.
Back in the kitchen, I put away the scissors and flashlight. I wrapped the hair and gum in layers of paper towels until the mess was the size of a tennis ball. In the moonlight I walked briskly to the outhouse. Inside I held my breath and tossed the bundle of hair and gum and towels out of site down one of the two holes.
With a sigh of relief, I crawled into bed and almost immediately fell asleep.
The fists pounding on my back startled me. The yelling yanked me awake.
“What did you do? How could you do this to me? Wake up!” Phyllis shouted.
My sisters took Phyllis into Brainard. My dad and brother-in-law thought it was all very funny. When the girls came back, my mouth dropped open.
“She looks good, doesn’t she?” One of my sisters said to me.
“Wow,” I said. “I’m really sorry, but gosh, you look great.”
Phyllis just gave me a “Tisk,” and bumped me with her shoulder as she pushed past.
I can’t remember how long I was in the ‘doghouse.’ It wasn’t an unfamiliar place. Phyllis never grew her hair long again. She preferred her short-cut look.
