Return to Wake Robin

by Marnie O. Mamminga

  One of the things that made it so was the well-known fact that it boasted a perfect swimming area, a sandy bottom for those who wanted to wade, very few weeds to navigate, and a gradual incline into deep water that made any swimmer feel safe.

  Our dock frequently welcomed a host of friends and family for sunbathing and visiting, as seen in this photo from the 1960s.

  Lake friends in need of an activity always knew they could find something going on down at the Oatman dock. Sometimes they floated down the shore in an inner tube; sometimes they buzzed by in a boat for a quick chat; sometimes they walked the rustic path that skirted the lake; and sometimes they hollered down from the cabin and descended the steps with towel in hand. All were welcome.

  And when my parents’ lifelong college friends, the Deeters, Mellingers, and Allisons, vacationed next door in Moody’s cabins for several summers in a row, our dock became headquarters for four families. There was enough sunning, swimming, fishing, boating, and visiting from its planks that it resembled an aircraft carrier.

  Water-safety rules, however, dominated all activities. Woody ran a tight summer ship, and we were never allowed to swim without an adult present. In addition, we always had to wait an hour after eating before we could go in the water, based on the then current belief that we could get cramps and drown. Violations meant lake privileges were rescinded, and who wanted that?

  Launching ourselves from the sturdy confines of our dock, we tested our own personal waters: swimming back and forth between the neighbor’s dock to reach a numbered goal; creating intricate water ballets; daring ourselves to dive deeper; making up new water games to entertain each other; setting sail in high winds; meeting the challenge to swim to the island and back; and, most illuminating, bravely opening our eyes underwater to discover the blurry beauty of silent sunbeams shining into the shadows.

  For creative, intellectual, social, or spiritual growth, there was no place finer than our dock.

  The docks are empty now.

  No one seems to hang out on them anymore. And rarely does one hear the pipe-pounding melody of docks being put in that once echoed around the lake like the sweet notes of a calliope. Instead, in the spring they are rolled in on wheels and in the fall they are rolled out with hardly a sitter or a swimmer in between. Most are narrow, metal structures and are side-saddled with boat lifts that look like long-armed monsters. The seamless shoreline ringed with low, unobtrusive green docks has disappeared. Except for the fishing and boating activities, one can look around the lake and hardly see a soul enjoying the simple pleasures of the dock.

  Have our senses become so dulled by the instantaneous flash of the technological age that the cloud patterns of the sky, the flight of an eagle, or the dive of a loon cannot hold our attention? Have we become so desensitized to the wonder of nature’s detail that we do not notice or appreciate the iridescent beauty of a dragonfly’s wings on a warm dock or hear the joy-jump-splash of a fish?

  I hope not.

  For if I were to have my choice of chairs in heaven, the dock is where you’d find me. In fact, when I sit on the dock and watch the sun rise, or follow the sweep of cloud patterns across a blue sky, or catch sight of stars shooting through the Milky Way, I feel like I am already there.

  The joys of summer in the Northwoods: Here I am, circa late 1950s, leaping off our dock in a flying cannonball with my best toe-pointed form, aiming for a huge splash in Big Spider Lake.

  A touch of green paint on my swimsuit bottom would just add to the glory.

  Bring on the Rain

  1950s–1960s

  “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my own ship.”

  —Louisa May Alcott

  We woke to stillness.

  Snuggled in our cabin beds, we could see that the early morning light was somehow different. And then we heard it. A muffled rumble over the forest like drums beating in the distance.

  My sister Nancy and I lay still just to be sure. And then, there it was again. Thunder.

  With it came the first gentle pit-pat-pit-pat of rain on the roof like the tender tap of a soft-shoe dancer. We burrowed under our covers and listened through the screens to the symphony of sounds slowly unwinding all around us.

  Boom! A new and nearer blast rolled down the length of the lake in a series of undulating baritone waves. Big, beautiful, and boisterous. Again the thunder came, echoing over and over itself like the crescendo of many timpani.

  Suddenly, the storm was upon us, and the heavens broke forth with rivers of rain. It poured down the gutters in wild waterfalls; it slithered snakelike down the steps to the lake; and it cunningly found its way through a maze of shingles, tarpaper, and pine boards to the single tiny crack over my head.

  The first drop on my forehead made me blink in disbelief; the second startled me out of my reverie; and the third sent me leaping out of bed faster than a jackrabbit to grab the kitchen dishpan in hopes of keeping my bed dry.

  Yet even with the advent of a rainy day upon us, all in the cabin stirred with sleepy happiness.

  One would hardly think this would be the case with a family of seven stuffed in our two-bedroom cabin. But no shut-in storm was going to dampen our spirits during our precious summer sojourn to the woods. In fact, we welcomed a rainy day with open arms.

  Who cared if we couldn’t lollygag on the dock all day, swim, canoe, or sail? We needed a break from the sun anyway. For despite the downpour outside and, of course, with no TV or even a phone to fall back on, we nevertheless knew activities and adventure awaited us. Our day was only limited by what creative options we could dream up.

  Cabin fever was not in our vocabulary.

  The first order of the day was to build a fire. Besides taking the dampness out of the air, its light and warmth bounced off the golden logs like rays of indoor sunshine keeping the outdoor grayness at bay.

  The second order was to decide what to do, thereby creating a quandary only because there were so many choices. Out from the corner chest came a collection of games with varying attributes to debate: Would it be Candyland, Parcheesi, Monopoly, checkers, or card games of Hearts, Go Fish, or Spoons? Should there be a tournament? Or would a one-on-one match of Solitaire do?

  The possibilities were endless. For the non–game lover, the choices were equally enticing: curl up in a corner with a good book while the game action played out before you; pick up some knitting and relax to its rhythm; or bake up some cookies, giving the cabin a double shot of sugary scents and sweet warmth.

  For those with a creative heart, a rainy day turned the cabin into a perfect art studio: pull out the tin box of water colors with its six bright hues all lined up in a row and paint the pine-studded island offshore; grab the crayons and a pad of paper to master ballerinas, horses, or clowns; create little people out of wooden clothespins by painting on faces, cutting scraps of cloth to make clothes, and gluing on acorn hats.

  For those willing to brave the rain, pie-pan gardens beckoned.

  This meant throwing on slickers and heading out into the wet woods in search of spiky moss, sparkling rocks, pinecones, ferns, and twigs. Rain-washed faces and soggy shoes only added to the fun. Back inside the warm cabin, we assembled our collection into tin pie pans, making miniature landscapes that were perfect for the clothespin people to reside in, thereby creating endless hours of imaginative play.

  Cooking a special treat was a favorite activity on rainy days at the cabin. In this circa 1954 scene, the scent of popcorn fills the cabin as my father, my sister Nancy, and I keep a close eye on the vintage popper.

  When those activities waned, outings to town, the Laundromat, a walk through the rain to a friend’s cabin, or a stroll through the dripping woods to check out the action around the hearth at Moody’s lodge became enticing adventures.

  When we were really energized, turtle racing ruled supreme.

  It didn’t take much to persuade one of our parents to drive us and our lake friends or visiting guests out to old forest
roads that wound past wild lakes and swamps to search for painted turtles. Packed in the station wagon, we hung our heads out the windows into the foggy drizzle, looking for turtles nestled in the long, wet grass or scrunched up in the sand beside the road.

  Once we had five or six loaded in a box, we headed back to the cabin. The rug was rolled back, the furniture pushed to the side, and a finish line established at the end of the room by the fireplace. Then each contestant picked out a turtle, taped or painted a number on its back, and lined up his or her racer at the floorboard starting line.

  A designated official called out, “On your mark, get set, go!” and the racers let his or her turtle loose.

  Pandemonium ensued.

  Some turtles scampered off, their claws clicking wildly on the waxed wood floor. Others smartly chose to just duck their heads back in their shells and not move an inch, thank you very much.

  Hooting and hollering encouragement to our turtles, we rivaled fans watching the Green Bay Packers versus the Chicago Bears. After a series of hilarious races, the victor was presented with a homemade ribbon made by one of the artists, and the turtles, no doubt grateful, were returned to the quiet of the forest.

  At some point during our rainy day activities, just like the turtles, each of us turned into his or her own shells of refuge. Someone might head to the porch for a nap under an old pea green army blanket, the rain creating a lullaby on the roof; another might sit close to the fire and write a letter home to a friend; someone else might burrow down on the log-framed couch to read; another might choose to just putter and putz about in the coziness of the cabin.

  Our longtime friends, the Allison family, join us for rainy day fun—including games, art projects, and reading—in our cabin, circa late 1950s.

  There came a moment, however, when each of us wandered out into the cool, damp mist of the porch and simply sat still to watch the splendor of the storm. Curled up in a blanket or heavy sweater on our protected porch perch, we marveled at the lightning streaks cracking the dark sky with silvery brilliance. We watched in wonder as the trees whipped back and forth as though performing a synchronized dance; we studied the swirling patterns on the water as the wind brushed and stroked its surface; but mostly we simply stared out in quiet reverie as the rain poured down around us.

  And then, subtly as though some elfin spirit had lifted a heavy curtain, there came a change. The rain lessened to a soft drip upon the leaves, the thunder faded, the wind turned to a gentle caress.

  Our porch at Wake Robin provides a cozy spot for watching a rainstorm, circa 1950s or ’60s.

  Suddenly, there it was: a shaft of sunlight breaking through the trees like stage lights on a dark set.

  “I wonder if there is a rainbow?” our mother mused.

  And with that, we bolted out of the cabin, down the slippery log steps, and out to the end of the dock as the last of the raindrops sprinkled down on us like a baptism from above.

  Luckily, we were often greeted by a dazzling rainbow curving over the northeastern end of the lake, straddling wetlands, forest, and water in one majestic arch. Hues of purple, red, green, and gold shone against the pewter puffiness of retreating storm clouds.

  In that silent moment, we all sensed we had been given a gift—not only in the rainbow but in the storm: the chance to be together, to use our imaginations, to seek solitude, to share, to get to know ourselves and each other better, and, perhaps foremost, to witness the wild beauty of a raging storm gradually turn to luminous light.

  Cabin Girls Catch the Cleaning Spirit

  1964

  “Cleanliness and order are not matters of instinct; they are matters of education, and like most great things—mathematics and classics—you must cultivate a taste for them.”

  —Benjamin Disraeli

  We hated to clean.

  It was the last thing on earth my sister Nancy and I wanted to do. As teenage girls, we had other things on our minds: boys, hair, suntans, our figures, and our friends, to name a few.

  In fact, our mother’s frequent requests for my sister and me to dust or sweep or wash dishes were answered by as many whining excuses as we could think of in order to avoid such drudgery.

  So no one was more surprised than the two of us to find ourselves cleaning cabins at Moody’s Camp. And it was the square dance, of all places, that led us to it.

  The night was damp and hot.

  Dancers were swinging their way through yet another set of Eddie the Guide’s fast-paced do-si-dos out on the tennis courts where the band had set up in the hope that a fresh lake breeze might offer a respite.

  Taking a break from the action, I sat on a nearby picnic bench soaking in the scene, when, suddenly, out of the dim light appeared Lucile Seitz. Swishing toward us in her lovely white square dance dress with its full skirt and scooped neck, she looked as captivating as the snowy owls we occasionally glimpsed sailing through the forest.

  Smiling warmly, she greeted my mother Woody, and the two engaged in a happy visit. Because I was sitting so close, of course I couldn’t help but eavesdrop.

  “I want to ask a favor,” Lucile said. “I’ve unexpectedly had my two cabin girls quit. Do you think Nancy and Marnie would be interested in the job for a couple weeks, just to tide us over?”

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “I would think they’d be glad to,” Woody said. “I’ll ask them.”

  “It’s so difficult to find help, and the camp is full,” Lucile continued. “But I know this is your vacation, so talk it over with the girls and let me know.”

  What was there to discuss? I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

  Nancy did too when she heard the news. Dick and Lucile wanted us to work for them? We’d get to hang out with other resort workers in the kitchen? They’d even pay us to do this?

  Like a musky leaping high and fast out of the water after a coveted mayfly, we jumped at the chance.

  Two days later as a golden sunrise burst through the feathery fronds of the forest, Nancy and I rolled out from the warmth of our porch beds, hopped into our blue jean cutoffs and cotton blouses, and reported for duty.

  I was fourteen and Nancy seventeen. It was the first job for both of us, and I don’t think either of us knew the work that awaited us.

  Walking quietly down the damp, dewy path of the woods that morning, we were filled with nervous excitement. We had no idea want to expect, but even at 6:30, we were ready and we were eager.

  As we approached the kitchen confines, laughter, chatter, and clattering dishes echoed out through the screened windows. Sweet scents of cinnamon dough baking and bacon grease frying fanned out into the driveway.

  We were as anxious as two skittish fawns. After all, the kitchen was the hub of the camp. It was where all the resort workers, who we so admired and who worked so hard to make everyone’s stay so enjoyable, took their private moments to eat, rest, or relax. It was their respected personal domain.

  Although we were hesitant to intrude, we were eager to enter their inner sanctum and see what it was like. And so our curiosity and enthusiasm for this new adventure propelled us forward. Nancy gingerly opened the kitchen’s screen door and I stepped meekly in behind her.

  Summer fun on the dock with our friends ended when my sister Nancy (second from left) and I (second from right) took on a three-week stint in 1964 as Moody’s cabin cleaning girls.

  Friendly greetings rang out immediately, putting us at ease. But I was so mesmerized by the sights and sounds around me that I could hardly move. Around the large table covered in blue-checkered oilcloth sat several of the camp’s help, including fishing guides Eddie and Tommy, who were both savoring a last cigarette and cup of coffee before hooking up with their morning clients and heading out to the lake.

  Dick stood up and welcomed us into the fold while Lucile fetched two place settings and insisted we sit down and join them for some oatmeal and a glass of orange juice before we got started. In our hurry to rise so early and be on time, w
e had neglected to eat breakfast and were more than willing to take her up on her offer.

  Within minutes steaming bowls of oatmeal were placed before us, and we were encouraged to help ourselves to the brown sugar and a pitcher of cream. Shyly, we reached for both. As we later discovered, it was just the nourishment needed for the work ahead.

  Eating quietly, we discreetly listened to the morning conversations: special requests from guests, outings planned, supplies to replenish, activities for the day. All the help seated round the table dished out their own stories and reports along with a lot of playful jostling.

  We were amazed to find ourselves included in this revered entourage. We felt as if we had just taken our places in a royal court.

  But like the Knights of the Round Table, duties called, and one by one, each worker left to pursue his or her agenda for the day. Dick set us up with our cleaning supplies, and Lucile explained the detailed routine for cleaning each cabin.

  It seemed simple enough: sweep the floors, change the linens, clean the bathroom’s sink, toilet, and shower, and wash up any used drinking glasses. There were thirteen cabins in all, and since the camp was full at this time of year, we had our work cut out for us.

  At 7:00 a.m. when the breakfast bell rang, Lucile directed us to the first cabins vacated by families and fishermen seeking an early start to the day. As they sauntered into the sunny lodge dining room to the freshly cooked breakfast awaiting them, we scurried off to clean their cabins before they returned.

  Awkwardly carrying our supplies of buckets, cleaners, and linens, we quickly figured out a routine. First, we changed the sheets and made the beds together. Then, while Nancy cleaned the bathroom (thankfully, by virtue of being older, she took on that important responsibility), I swept out the rooms and washed the glasses. Whoever got done first helped the other.

  Because we often worked together at home doing dishes and other chores our mother assigned, we made a good team and worked fast. After all, despite the novelty of working at the resort, we didn’t want to miss out on too much afternoon dock time with our friends. Naively, we figured we could do our job and swim and sunbathe, too.