Return to Wake Robin

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  Whoever held the flashlight led the way. The rest of us stumbled along, tripping over an occasional root or rock. We were too hurried to complain that the flashlight holder needed to share. And besides, we knew the wooded path by heart. The strains of the first dance pulled us onward like the entrancing music of the Pied Piper.

  As we scampered up the hill and around the corner of the lodge, the laughter and golden glow of lights drew us ever closer to the square dance. The whole building was alive with radiant energy. Forgetting our usual shyness, we flung open the screen door and marched in.

  Oh, what happiness greeted us!

  Inside, people mingled from all around the lake: lodge guests, private cabin owners, the camp help, local neighbors, and even visitors from other resorts in various stages of activities filled the small rooms. On this summer evening, some gathered on the sofas for a cozy chat while children congregated in the porch’s corner for a fast card game of Spoons.

  But most filled the dining room, edging the dance floor in clustered chairs as they watched elated dancers swing through the paces of the “Virginia Reel.”

  With our best manners on display, we searched for an empty hickory-backed chair from which to view the action. Quickly taking our places, we drank in the scene swirling about us. Foremost was the Frank Jalowitz band, a three-piece combo usually consisting of an accordion, banjo, and drums. Although we children had heard the Chicago Symphony at Orchestra Hall, the square dance tunes could not have been finer. In our opinion, this was the music of angels.

  Fascinated, we watched the accordion player squeeze his instrument back and forth with a gentle sway while simultaneously playing melody on the keys. The banjo player strummed his strings, and the drummer tap-tap-tapped a steady swishing beat.

  Ted Moody poses with two members of the square dance band, circa early 1950s. Dances were held every Wednesday night at the lodge.

  But mostly it was the caller who mesmerized us all. Usually, it was fishing guide Eddie Ostling, who had miraculously metamorphosed into a debonair crooner. “Now allemande left! Now allemande right!” sang out his rarely heard voice in strong melodic dictation. You had to pay close attention to his calls so as not to make a fool of yourself. With giddy smiles, dancers moved through the set at a fast-clipped pace. Eddie was definitely the man of the hour. The stage was set.

  Although watching the dancers was entertaining, our greatest need at the moment was to find a partner for ourselves. Anyone would do; we were not choosy. We were desperate. And since beggars can’t be choosers, our dancing partners came in all ages, sizes, and sexes.

  Doug Seitz spins his partner around the lodge’s dining room dance floor while his lake buddy, Brian Wahl, watches from the sidelines, circa mid-1950s.

  Courtesy of Dick Seitz

  Because most of the dances required switching partners midstream through the many do-si-dos, you never knew who you might end up with. Sometimes a brother suddenly became the best friend he was meant to be; sometimes a dad took a gallant turn with his daughter; sometimes an unknown resort guest thirty years your senior did the honors; sometimes the handsome seventeen-year-old from down the shore and your shy ten-year-old self linked arms. Alas, you couldn’t help but notice his brightening smile when the dance calls switched him over to the pretty sixteen-year-old resort waitress.

  It mattered not, for eventually, there was at least one dance when everyone was lucky enough to land the partner of his or her choice. And then satisfaction shone in their eyes, in the clasp of their hands, and in the easy, light flow of their steps.

  Those not dancing enjoyed the floor show while cheerfully entertaining each other: young mothers holding sleepy babies shared fond visits; fathers found old friends; elders eloquently held court; children played cards; and lovers strolled off for a kiss.

  Woody and Pat Hines, the two young red-headed mothers of the crowd, sat side by side with their little daughters on their laps looking as flushed and vibrant as a Renoir painting. Our father sought out some of the older, longtime returning guests with whom he always enjoyed a conversation. Fishing guide Tommy Seehuetter and other resort workers mingled among the folks in close camaraderie, recounting the activities of the day. It mattered not what your day job was. In this small Northwoods community, all were equal, all were friends, and all danced with one another.

  Eventually, the band took a break, and hot sweaty dancers stepped out into the cool, crisp night air. Smokers joined them, pulling out their cigarettes and exchanging fish stories between puffs, the glowing red butts gleaming in isolated darkness like the eyes of a wild animal. Within the lodge, men pooled together to tip back bottled beer. Ladies scooted their chairs over to chat as children scampered to the ice cream counter or into the office for a cold pop pulled icy wet from the slushy confines of the Coca-Cola cooler. Teenagers dealt a quick game of cards out on the breezy screened porch, cooling their amorous hearts, at least for the moment.

  Occasionally, the hot, humid nights of summer forced the square dance outside to the tennis courts, where dancers swirled under the stars and the music rose with the moist mist. Revelers ringed the courts like they were at a Wimbledon match or sat at picnic tables to watch the action. Lit by the dim glow of torches, the dancing faces of friends moved in and out of the warm darkness as if they were woodland spirits playing in the moonlight.

  On hot summer nights, like this one circa early 1960s, the weekly square dance was moved from the lodge dining room to the tennis courts for cooler dancing.

  Courtesy of Bill Perrine

  But on this cool night, the dance was inside as usual, and when the band started tuning up again, guests returned faster than skittering crawdads on a sandy lake bottom. Eddie’s suave voice beckoned dancers out on the floor yet again, and the night continued with renewed energy.

  Not surprisingly, the Bunny Hop and the Hokey Pokey brought a full crowd, young and old, to the floor. Other tunes ensued as dancers moved through the paces, segueing easily from one song to the next with hardly a moment to catch one’s breath. And as dancers continuously pulled new partners to the floor, an eclectic mix was always in motion.

  Throughout the evening highlights rained like stardust from the sky: Tommy the fishing guide swinging his young wife, Violet, around the room with dazzling finesse in a fast-stepping polka; Eddie calling out the intricate moves like a stage actor delivering his lines with snappy allure; little children dancing with their parents; bashful teenagers sharing a first dance; and most lovely of all, resort owners Dick and Lucile Seitz waltzing alone to three-count elegance in a heart-melting embrace. No Broadway stage could have delivered more mesmerizing moments.

  Little children loved square dance nights at the lodge as much as—or more than—the adults did. My little sister Mary, second from left, finds a friend to polka with, circa early 1960s.

  And then, suddenly, it all came to and end.

  When the band swung into the refrains of “Irene goodnight, Irene goodnight, / Goodnight Irene, goodnight Irene, / I’ll see you in my dreams …” you knew it was over.

  With panic in your heart, you searched for a ready partner, grabbed his or her hand, and frantically headed to the floor in a desperate effort to not miss the last dance. How could it have ended so soon? It seemed like it was only just getting started.

  But without a doubt, the evening was coming to a close. The band smoothly transitioned from “Goodnight Irene” into “Goodnight ladies, goodnight gentlemen, goodnight ladies, we hate to see you go. Merrily we roll along, roll along, roll along, merrily we roll along over the bright blue sea. …”

  It was then that you knew you had to wait a whole week to dance again. Or worse, if your vacation was over, your heart ached with the knowledge that it would be a whole long year before you might be lucky enough to return and relish such magic.

  As the last note ended, a burst of laughter and clapping followed, hardly hiding the sorrowful sighs at the evening’s closure. Friends bid each other fond farewells a
nd headed home under starry skies. Those who came by boat maneuvered shadowy steps to the lake and, with the low rumbling start of their motors, set off across the waters under the breathtaking Milky Way.

  Our family shuffled off to our station wagon parked amid the cluster of other cars by the camp’s log garage. As the seven of us piled in and snapped on our seat belts, our suddenly sleepy selves watched quietly as our father swung the car down the narrow dirt road to our cabin. Only the sound of tires crunching on gravel filled the air as the headlights illuminated what seemed like an enchanted forest.

  Circling into our driveway past our leaning log garage, we noted with satisfaction that a lovely lime Luna moth and a cluster of other colorful ones clung to its back door. Resting on the warm wood from their own spritely dance, they soaked up the heat from the overhead light like sunbathers on a dock.

  Tumbling out of the car, we lined up in the cabin’s dark hallway, waiting for our father to unlock the door. Then with quick goodnights, we stripped off our clothes, fumbled for our pajamas, and stumbled into beds, leaving our once freshly ironed skirts and shirts in a heap upon the floor. Gradually, the forest became still, the last boat motor quieted on a distant shore, and only the lapping waves sounded their rhythmic song. Slowly we began to drift off under their hypnotizing spell, as a reprise of square dance tunes swirled our hearts into exhausted, blissful sleep.

  In my dreams, I can still see and hear those lodge night parties. But most of all I hear the music, its sweet, lyrical refrains echoing across the lake in suspended glory.

  Dock Day Delight

  1920s–1960s

  “The lake is the landscape’s most beautiful and expressive feature. It is Earth’s eye, looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature.”

  —Henry David Thoreau

  Our dock danced.

  It literally rocked with activity. From sunrise until 3:00 p.m., when the sun went off its end, we gathered there to swim, sunbathe, go boating, fish, visit, picnic, wade, and splash.

  Just as it had been for my grandparent’s generation, the dock was our mecca. It called us to the lake like a loon to its mate. From this stretched-out perch, we could sit for hours mesmerized by the cloud formations, the open sky, the stream of diamond-dancing sunshine on the water, or the frothy wind-whipped whitecaps rolling down the lake.

  It was the first place we ran to after our arduous journey Up North, no matter how late the midnight hour. It was a constant gathering place for many of our friends. It was the place we sought for a quiet moment of solitude after a rainstorm, at dusk, or when the stars began to shine.

  As for a calming sense of mind, nothing gave us more pleasure than to stare out at the water, the islands, the distant shore. It was our peace.

  And that is why we loved it so.

  For a child, no place could have been finer.

  From our wooden pier we could observe our whole water and woodland world because, best of all, everyone else was down at the dock, too.

  Moody’s Camp owner Lucile Seitz (third from right) enjoys a rare game of cards with several guests on the resort’s popular swim dock, 1957.

  Courtesy of Dick Seitz

  There was handsome seventeen-year-old Jim Wedding skiing across the lake. There was Tommy the Guide, poles and bait bucket in hand, readying his wooden rower at Moody’s boat dock for a fishing expedition. There were the Seitz kids, Sharon, Kay, and Doug, down at Moody’s sandy shore along with a flock of guest kids frolicking in the shallows and pushing each other off the raft.

  There was Eddie, anchored off the tip of an island casting his line side by side with a client. There were the Hobart girls, Jackie and Patty, floating on inner tubes off their cabin’s shoreline. And there was the Perrines’ caretaker and jack-of-all-trades, Al Wendy, expertly sailing their guests across the bay.

  The entire lake was like a circus with a variety of ongoing acts. Sitting on the dock provided a ringside view. It’s no wonder that when the sun shone and the sky was blue, no other activity beckoned to us more than spending all day on the dock.

  Like most of the early-era docks of the 1920s and ’30s, the one Erle and Clara had Ted Moody build was a narrow affair. Approximately four feet wide, made out of wood and painted turtle green, piers such as this one were basic, sturdy structures often anchored by a bench at the end. Here is where Clara took her morning swim, where Erle fished, and where my father zoomed off in his sporty green wooden speedboat with its jazzed-up silver motor. Here is where they called out greetings to the reclusive Hedley Jobbins on the next dock over or waved to friends rowing by in a boat.

  It was all they needed: simple pier pleasures.

  With my grandmother Clara swimming in the background, my grandfather Erle Oatman shares a story with my mother, seated on the dock bench, during her first visit to their Northwoods home.

  When we five Oatman children came along in the 1940s and ’50s, the dock became our playground, our total entertainment for hours on end. We frolicked in the water until our toes and fingers were as wrinkled as worms; practiced swimming and perfecting our strokes; waded endlessly along the shore in search of frogs; collected half-buried clams for an impromptu artistic dock display; created and performed water ballet for anyone willing to watch; and gathered sparkling stones from the sandy bottom as though they were jewels for a king.

  There wasn’t a single one of us (or most any other swimmer on the lake, for that matter) who didn’t have a bit of green paint on the bottom of his or her swimsuit from sitting on a dock. It was a kind of Northwoods fashion statement.

  My mother, circa early 1960s, frequently hosted a picnic lunch on the dock for us plus neighboring lake kids.

  As teenagers, sunbathing became my sister Nancy’s and my main pursuit. We smeared our bodies from head to toe with a concoction of baby oil and iodine, and when our mother Woody wasn’t looking, squirted lemon juice into our hair with the dim hope of becoming blonde bombshells. In our attempts at beauty, we looked and smelled more like garnish for a fish platter.

  One of our best lake activities ever, however, was riding the “surfboard” our parents gave us for Christmas one year in the early 1960s. Basically, it was a slab of blue-, red-, and yellow-striped plywood connected by long hemp ropes to the back of our 1954 aluminum fishing boat. After a few well-placed pulls on our 7½-horsepower blue Evinrude motor, the engine roared to life like a lion, and we were off. Skimming across the water on this slippery surfboard, we felt like we were on a magic carpet ride. Even though our slow motor barely got us above the waterline, we felt like we were zipping around as fast as water bugs on a pond.

  Amazingly, we older kids were allowed to run the boat for each other, and consequently found mischievous delight in dragging a screaming sibling over the weed beds at the north end of Big Spider. Our greatest horror was that we might fall off, get entangled in the slimy weeds, and have to touch the mucky, murky mud bottom where surely a slew of bloodsuckers awaited us.

  Sometimes the driver slowed just for the sinking effect.

  In addition to the surfboard, we found hours of hilarity by getting into the canoe with no paddles, pushing it off from the dock, and rocking it precariously back and forth from one side to the other until, after a moment of exhilarating suspense, it finally capsized. Out we’d fall into the lake laughing and screaming so hard that Woody had to hush us.

  “Quiet down! Sound carries over water!” was one of her favorite mantras.

  Unwilling to be squelched, we’d dive under the canoe and laugh ourselves silly in the huge air pockets underneath until our sides burst. Thankfully, from the canoe’s swamped confines, our noise was muffled enough to spare the neighbors.

  The dock was the launching pad for all our lake activities. Here is where we rigged the Enterprise and set sail. Here is where we piled into the canoe and paddled off to see the yellow, white, and purple hues of the water lilies; here is where we, ready to roam, loaded the rocking fishing boat for an island picnic
lunch. And here, like an eagle returning to its nest, is where we contentedly headed home.

  We napped in its pine-shaded sections, read on its warm planks, and chatted with friends who often stopped by for a visit but ended up staying for one of Woody’s impromptu dock lunches: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, tomato soup, and lemonade all carried down the forty-nine steps from the cabin on trays. No problem. The more on the dock, the merrier.

  Despite all the activity, our rustic dock lasted for years and years. Occasionally, our father had to repair or replace a rotten board or jury-rig a section for added strength, but, more often than not, the dock was strong and steady. The main dock of our youth met its demise at my sixteenth birthday party after a throng of friends jumped off of it enough times that one end collapsed, thereby creating a slippery slide into the lake—the perfect finale for a teenage party.

  From dawn until the sun went off our dock at 3:00 p.m., it was filled with activity. Here, my father, circa 1960s, keeps an eagle eye on all of our boating and swimming activities—including our favorite pastime of capsizing the canoe.

  With that dock’s collapse, Woody grabbed the opportunity and did away with tradition. After all, with five kids, who had time to paint a dock?

  She designed a masterpiece that served us for the next thirty-three years. Made out of redwood, the new dock’s seven sections were six feet by six feet and as heavy as a loaded log truck when putting it in and taking it out of the lake. Long metal pipes sledgehammered through dock brackets into the lake’s bottom kept it secure. But Woody wanted the dock wide enough so that two people could easily sit side by side for a good visit and not have to move every time a child scooted by for a flying cannonball off the deep end. Her vision worked.

  Our dock became an even bigger gathering place.