My mother loved the simple, rustic cabin which my father and a friend built in 1955, when I was six years old. It was one of the earliest cabins on Mead Lake, a man-made lake near Greenwood, Wisconsin. It was a wonderful retreat for my hard-working parents and a source of pride for all of us.
One of my favorite memories is of my mother sitting on an old burgundy-colored metal rocker near the lake watching her bird friends—the cardinals, finches, and hummingbirds. She would faithfully put out sunflower seeds and sugar syrup for them every day.
You could also find her snuggled up by the fireplace or sitting on the front porch munching on popcorn and listening to Milwaukee Braves baseball or Packers football. She was an avid fan and listened to every game she could, regardless of the team’s record. She often sent Christmas cards to the Packers coach Bart Starr and his wife and was thrilled when she heard back from them.
Together during the summer we often went berry picking or on walks to the dam. We stopped at the little lake store nearby and bought chocolate covered bananas. Back at the cabin we played ball—baseball, softball, or kickball. She couldn’t bend her knee due to childhood illnesses, but she could scamper along almost as fast as any of us. Having grown up with five brothers, my mother loved sports and competing. That applied to playing cards as well, which we frequently enjoyed in the evening.
My mother loved to bake. I still savor the memories of luscious blackberry or raspberry pies, which were even more delicious knowing how hard we had worked to gather the fruit. We often came home with scratched arms and legs from prickly vines and pesky mosquitoes.
The cabin went through many changes over the years, but we could never get rid of the occasional mice. I remember my mother opening a large metal bucket full of sunflower seeds and discovering a very plump mouse inside. He was as surprised as she was and barely managed to escape. In later years she and my husband had major disagreements about how to deal with the mice. She believed in the old-fashioned mouse trap or broom approach; he was a little more unconventional. When we heard a mouse scratching on the bedroom wall in the middle of the night he would get up, grab a large oven mitt, scoop the mouse into a large bucket or old coffee can, and haul it outside. One rainy night it happened seven times. The last time he dropped the mouse off behind the old outhouse. My mother loved hearing that story because she could tease him that it was the same mouse that kept coming back and was laughing all the way.
The old outhouse had a story of its own. It was about 50 or 60 yards back from the cabin and had been there for as long as I could remember. It was only used during the early years. I distinctly remember one seemingly routine trip to the outhouse by myself as a seven or eight year old. Once inside, I looked down at the last minute and discovered a snake crawling around the seat. I screamed bloody murder and ran for my life. My mother came running, not knowing what had happened. Not being a snake lover, she was very sympathetic and rounded up my dad to deal with it. I swore never to use the outhouse again, but I don’t recall how long that promise lasted.
Through the years my parents hosted many family reunions and church retreats at the cabin. After my father died, my mother spent summers at the cabin and loved having family and friends stop by whenever they had time. Eventually she married again and my stepfather considered the cabin his home too.
The cabin is no longer there, but memories of it will always endure. Susan B. Anthony once said, “Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit, and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these.” To me that’s what the cabin and times spent there with my mother represent. I will always be grateful.
No comments:
Post a Comment