Savoring the unique blessings of their little cabin, they generously invited a multitude of close friends, including many of David’s, to share in the peace, adventure, and camaraderie of the Northwoods. On Mondays, they drove their Buick to Ashland in order for Erle to keep up his loyal attendance at the Rotary Club, taking in Lake Superior’s spectacular views along the way. They dined at the lodge every night. They were blissfully happy.
And then, in the fall of 1938 at the peak of their bliss, tragedy struck.
Erle and Clara had just enjoyed their ninth summer at Wake Robin, where, for the first time, they had entertained David’s college sweetheart and her family from Ohio for a wonderful month of togetherness. As was their tradition, Erle and Clara had stayed on to celebrate their September anniversary at the cabin surrounded by the brilliant changing colors of red and gold leaves that they so enjoyed.
Upon their return to Illinois, with Clara eagerly getting ready for the holidays and David off to graduate school at Ohio State University, Erle’s heart suddenly gave out.
I wonder if he knew it would be his last summer. Would he have done anything differently or kept it just the same? Perhaps that is the best way to leave the woods: to never have to knowingly say good-bye to the lake and forest forever.
I like to think he had one marvelous summer filled with all that he treasured. That the moon shone brightly, that the winds were soft, that the sunrises sparkled. Perhaps he caught a big musky, napped on the porch, laughed with friends, shared endless contented moments with his wife and son. I hope so.
But most of all, I wonder if he ever knew the legacy he would pass on. That David would marry that college sweetheart, that his five grandchildren would cherish the lake as he had, that his five great-grandchildren would do the same, and that, beyond all expectations, a fifth generation is now being joyfully introduced to the lake’s still-wild allure.
Over the years, on one of the many endless all-day car trips Up North, when fatigue begins to set in and there are still several hours of driving left, I often ask aloud why Erle and Clara didn’t stop earlier, especially since their ride took two days of travel over dusty, bumpy roads. Why travel 450 miles when 300 might have worked just as well?
My grandfather and father enjoy a moment on the lodge deck at Moody’s Camp, circa 1929.
Erle must have been asked the same question, for he was often known to remark, “You have to come this far north to get this kind of beauty.”
And he was right. Like “The brightest star in the Milky Way,” his love of the Northwoods shines on.
From a grandfather we never knew, that is quite a gift.
ON THIS FAIR BODY OF WATER
On this fair body of water
With its emerald islands fair
Where the sunshine is brighter
And the moon beams softer
Where the song of the bird is sweeter
And the tread of the deer lighter
Where the laugh of the child is clearer
And the hearts of the people sincerer
Will be wrought of the builder
From stone and log superior
A cabin called home (But it will be homier)
For in it will live a man worthier
A woman lovelier
And a boy heartier
Than any we know
Oh woods you are fortunate
To clasp in your arms such folks
They who appreciate and love your glory
Whose hearts and hands are tenderer
May you bless them in your prayer.
M.W.M.*
*M.W.M.—Meribel W. Merrill—was a great friend of the Oatmans from Aurora and a frequent visitor with her husband to Wake Robin. In the early 1930s, she wrote this poem on birch bark in black ink and illustrated it with sketches of Erle in a boat, Clara swimming, and young David fishing. It still hangs on the cabin wall.
Clara and the Cabin She Designed
1923–1957
“For the beauty of the earth / For the glory of the skies …”
—Old Gospel hymn
Clara.
I have always loved her name. There is a crisp elegance about it, and yet a softness, too. And that is exactly what she was like.
Her full name was Clarabelle Borden Oatman, which we five grandchildren found hilarious since there was a Clara Bell the Clown on one of our favorite television shows as kids growing up in the 1950s. We pondered the irony because no two personas could be less alike. Clara Bell the Clown was loud, silly, awkward. Clarabelle our grandmother was elegant, graceful, refined.
The comparison made us laugh out loud, and our grandmother laughed right along with us. To us, however, she was always “Grogey,” the name with which my older sister Nancy christened her as a toddler.
It was only after Clara had been gone for many years, however, and I had matured into a young adult that I was able to hear and separate the lyrical loveliness of her given name from that of a cartoon character. Clarabelle beats in my heart with the sweetness of birdsong or the sway of a woodland flower.
She was both.
I adored my grandmother. To me, she was everything a grandmother should be: patient, fun, kind, encouraging, and fascinating in her own right.
For a woman born in 1876, she was highly educated, widely read, and equally well versed in business, nature, and the arts. She was an expert in antiques as well as ornithology, a reader of Emerson, Thoreau, and Whittier, and an early devotee of Robert Frost. Her taste, no matter what the area, was exquisite.
It’s no wonder she loved the Northwoods.
When my grandfather suggested they journey to the Hayward lakes area in 1923, she had no qualms about leaving an immaculate two-story stucco home filled with oriental rugs, oil paintings, elegant china, gleaming silver, fine linens, and a maid and climbing into an open-air touring car to travel for two days over gravel roads for the purpose of spending several weeks of “vacation” in a fishing camp with outhouses.
She was up for the adventure. Their young son, David, didn’t need any convincing either. To the Northwoods they would go.
Although the Scheer brothers’ Boulder Lodge resort provided a rough and wonderful introduction to the Northwoods for several summers, it was the discovery of Moody’s Camp and all its charms that snagged my grandmother’s undivided attention.
The white tablecloths, the wildflower bouquets, the food, the guests, the organized forest hikes through virgin pine, the picnics, and the “bathing” in the refreshing lake waters only fueled her lively intellect and fascination for life Up North.
Although she was wealthy, refined, and educated, Clara was no stuffed shirt. She possessed a wry sense of humor and delighted in the laughter and fun that made the Northwoods a perfect backdrop for all her varied interests.
The deep friendship she and Erle established with Ted and Myrtle Moody added to the ambience. It’s no wonder she wanted to put down permanent roots by building her own cabin within a few short years. What could be finer than having a cabin of one’s own while still enjoying all the attractive amenities that Moody’s Camp had to offer?
As soon as Wake Robin was completed in 1929, Clara set about decorating it with all that she loved: Spode china, polished pressed glassware, stimulating books, antique rockers, opera glasses for bird watching, and, most beloved, her well-worn bird book for identification and sighting notes.
She cleverly blended birch leg tables, twig curtain rods, and wool hooked rugs with her finery, effectively avoiding a citified look. She used the same green paint as on the dock for the metal beds and outfitted the kitchen with the cream-colored, green-rimmed enamelware popular at the time. By combining the rustic beauty of the natural world with her sophisticated accents, she fashioned a warm and creative atmosphere for her cabin that enchanted all who entered.
My grandparents on their newly constructed log steps at Wake Robin, 1929
And enter they did. Once settled, Clara, Erle, and David soon began
to invite their many friends. Their 1931 guest book, inscribed with their three names in David’s bold sixteen-year-old handwriting, includes more than forty signatures of family and friends in that summer alone, many of whom made the journey from the Chicago area.
With a wavy blond bob, twinkling blue eyes, and a vibrant personality to match, Clara was a generous and loving hostess—so much so that, as the guest book shows, many friends were frequent and repeat visitors.
Despite the rough and rugged nature of a cabin in the woods, which included kerosene lamplight, outhouses, fireplace heat, mosquitoes, spiders, and lake bathing, Clara did not abandon her elegance.
In summer, her signature style included floral silk dresses, sturdy white leather heels, pearls, and a swirl of diamond rings. When on the dock or in the rowboat, she donned her coquettish straw hat encircled with a navy blue ribbon; when temperatures dropped, especially in the fall, a stylish red leather jacket kept her warm.
An early photo of Wake Robin’s kitchen shows the original wood-burning stove, kerosene lanterns, teakettles, and dishpan.
Clara and Myrtle Moody on the lodge porch, May 1931
But this wardrobe was almost contradictory to the activity she enjoyed most, for Clara loved to swim. Every morning, no matter how cold the weather or frigid the water, she slipped into her swimsuit, donned her swim cap, and pulled on her white rubber “bathing shoes” for an early “dip” in the lake. And as on most other docks, a cake of soap was always on hand. Refreshed and invigorated, Clara was ready to start her day.
In such a manner and for nine splendid years, she and Erle lived their dream at Wake Robin. For them, it was the best of times.
And then came the fall of 1938.
What a shock it must have been to have their time together at the cabin suddenly cut short just as they were heading into retirement. Clara and David were devastated. And yet, being a strong and independent woman, and no doubt making decisions in a way she felt would honor Erle, Clara bravely carried on and continued to make her summer pilgrimage to Wake Robin.
For she was not afraid of solitude or being alone in the woods.
Bird watching, letter writing, reading, knitting, and, of course, swimming filled her days. Often for companionship she brought along her widowed older sister, Mina Borden Thompson, who equally adored the Northwoods. The friendships of lake neighbors and annual guests at Moody’s, whose company Clara enjoyed while still dining nightly at the lodge, surely softened the sorrow of Erle’s death.
Photo postcard of Wake Robin, circa 1930s. Many private cabin owners near Moody’s had photo postcards made of their cabins to send to friends back home.
In the late 1940s and early 1950s when we five grandchildren were born, Clara graciously gave my mother free rein at the cabin, staying home when we were there in July and August. Loving the early part of summer the best, Clara scheduled her visits from June through the Fourth of July. Perhaps the commotion of our seven-member family in her normally immaculate two-bedroom cabin was a bit much to endure, especially after so much privacy.
Always independent, she continued to drive north each summer by herself until she was in her late seventies, when she finally asked my father to drive her up and back. In 1956, my nine-year-old sister Nancy was invited to go along as her companion. I was green with envy.
Imagine my shock, however, when I was invited the following year. In our family, to be picked to go solo with our grandmother for several weeks at the cabin was a glorious surprise. Anticipating the perfect mix of individual attention and independence, I knew, even as a seven-year-old, it was a gift beyond compare.
My father drove us up in Clara’s big black 1955 Buick, the two of them in front and me contentedly in the back, luxuriating in the lack of cramped chaos that usually accompanied our family drives Up North.
My grandmother knitting on the porch on a rainy day in the 1940s.
Once we arrived at the cabin, my father stayed just overnight to get us settled and then caught the next day’s train out of Stanberry back to Illinois, where the many responsibilities of work and a large family awaited him. How he must have longed to stay on, if only for a few days, to enjoy the peace of the lake as well.
Before he left, my grandmother amazed me with three prettily wrapped presents. Sitting on the faded green canvas cushions of the porch swing, I felt like it was an early birthday as I unwrapped a baby doll to inspire my imagination; a game of Parcheesi for the two of us to play; and a red wooden whistle to call the birds, thereby introducing me to her feathered friends.
Perhaps Clara bequeathed these gifts to ensure my happiness, but she need not have worried. Being alone with her at the cabin was enough. As I blissfully swayed on the swing, my father kissed us good-bye, and Clara and I began our two weeks together in the woods.
Our days were simple.
While Clara savored the rigorous night air of the porch for sleeping, I enjoyed the cozy comfort of the double-bedroom off the kitchen—another luxury, since my two sisters and I shared a crowded bedroom back home.
As was her custom, Clara, even at age eighty-one, rose early to take her swim. Then, in common contentment, we shared a simple breakfast on the porch. Quietly listening to the wind-rustled leaves, we watched the sparkling waves dance across the lake in the brilliant morning sunshine. Surrounded by such blessed loveliness, it was easy to understand why her favorite hymn was “For the Beauty of the Earth,” with its lyrics: “For the mystic harmony / Linking sense to sound and sight.” I have never found a finer way to start the day.
After washing the dishes in the kitchen’s green-rimmed enamel basin, we played a competitive match of Parcheesi or put the bird whistle to use out on the porch. Twisting the whistle’s handle to attract the birds, I watched in wonder as robins, chickadees, and nuthatches suddenly appeared in nearby trees to sing their sweet song back to us. Afternoons were saved for dock time. As a novice swimmer, I watched Clara’s elegant sidestroke and imitated her as best I could. She would step into deeper water, encouraging me into the safety of her arms and back out again. Like two playful otters, the octogenarian and seven-year-old, we floated side by side, buoyed by the waves and our comfortable camaraderie.
With so much activity to indulge in, somehow it wasn’t long before the lodge bell rang out its first call to dinner at 5:00 p.m. sharp, and we knew it was time to dress for our evening meal. Recombing my lake hair up into a neat ponytail, I quickly stripped out of my swimsuit or shorts and changed into one of two carefully pressed cotton dresses while Clara donned her pearls. Together we climbed into her Buick for a stately drive down the dusty lane and up to the lodge. Warmly greeted by then resort owners Dick and Lucile Seitz, we were escorted to our table for two overlooking the lake. As we dined on the evening’s fancy fare, Clara shared pleasantries with the other guests, and I basked in the regal atmosphere as if I’d been crowned Queen of the Musky Festival.
Most treasured, however, was that, in addition to her daily individual attention, Clara gave me the blessing of independence. She trusted my choices and outings as long as I returned before 5:00 to get ready for dinner. I was free to walk the roads to the lodge by myself to investigate the day’s activities, swim at Moody’s beach as long as an adult was present, and chase frogs by the shoreline with my seven-year-old best buddy, Doug Seitz, the resort owners’ son.
My happiness was complete.
And then one day my father appeared again, and I knew it was time to go home. As a young girl, I had no awareness of time gone by, and everything came to an abrupt halt. Suddenly we were packing up the Buick and swinging around the curve of the gravel road as the lodge bell tolled its sad farewell, its clanging resonance echoing through the woods, filling my heavy heart with the yearning to come back with her next year.
But for my grandmother it was not to be.
Perhaps times were too hard for my father to leave our family to drive her Up North. Perhaps the rustic setting was becoming too much. Perhaps she did not want to leave
Mina, her frail older sister who lived with her, alone. All I know is that she did not go back again. A series of heart attacks took their toll, and she passed away in the spring of 1962.
Little did I know, looking back now more than a half century later, what our cherished time together at the cabin would mean to me. Through her quiet manner and simple acts of love, Clara instilled in me the wonder of wild birdsong, the thrill of independence, the gift of trust, the joy of simplicity, the imagination that is born of solitude, and the calm that comes with routine.
I can only hope that, in what turned out to be my grandmother’s last summer at the lake, somehow my own seven-year-old self gave her as much happiness as she gave me. Mine has lasted a lifetime.
Sourdough Sam Sails On
1923–1975
“‘What shall we do when hope is gone?…
“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’”
—Joaquin Miller
He loved to laugh. And it was a good thing. For life didn’t turn out exactly as he had hoped.
No doubt, David Borden Oatman’s yearly sojourns to the Northwoods from the time he was a young boy until his death at age sixty-one gave him the strength, resilience, and peace he needed in later years.
One of the many reasons Erle and Clara Oatman decided to vacation in the Northwoods, or perhaps the main reason, is that they instinctively knew what a remarkable environment it would be for their young son, David. Such wild woodland surroundings would serve as a kind of counterculture to the more formal education and lifestyle back home in Illinois.
When they first vacationed in the Northwoods in the early 1920s, Erle and Clara surely felt that the whole of the great outdoors—woods, water, wildlife, rain, sunshine, moon, and stars—provided a perfect oasis for their eager son to grow, discover, and learn, and in the process make friends with others as well as with solitude.
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