July, 2019

By Mary Ann Doyle

“We’re going to the cottage!” the little boy blurted. 

I was standing in line at the grocery store and had been observing the kid juggling a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows and several chocolate bars in his small arms before one dropped at my feet.

His eyes were glowing, his features alight with excitement as I bent down and handed him back his candy. “We’re going to the cottage,” he repeated breathlessly and his obvious enthusiasm made me grin for I knew exactly how he felt.

It Ain’t Much

When I was around 10 years old, my parents bought a one-room hunting shack just a few miles outside the little Northwoods town of Mellen, Wisconsin. My dad and his friend went to look at it before the purchase and when he returned home I recall him describing it to my mother in succinct terms.

“It ain’t much.”

But that spring my parents loaded all five of us kids, the family dog and a few essentials in our woody-sided station wagon and we headed north to check it out. 

After five hours of driving we bumped down an overgrown logging road and I could hardly contain my excitement as tree branches brushed along the windshield and the glorious aroma of the Northwoods poured through the open windows. 

From my dad’s perspective I suppose he was right. The log-sided structure was primitive at best, no running water with an outhouse in back. It sat on a small knoll in the middle of 40 acres of thick forest. A screen porch spanned the front and inside the floor was covered with crackling linoleum.

It possessed all the amenities though. In a corner was a storage cupboard, and along one wall was a small stove next to a boxy refrigerator. A sagging hide-a-bed couch completed the furnishings. It had that musty, old cottage smell but from the moment I walked in I fell in love. To me it was as close to heaven as a kid could get.

The cabin was not lakeside but the property bordered Loon Lake just a short distance along the logging road and after inspecting our new abode we all trooped down to check it out. We watched a loon bob in a bay and along the shore were rushes hopping with frogs and squirming tadpoles. There was a carry-in boat landing alongside a cracked cement pier and a massive log in the water, a bass swimming languidly over it. I don’t think any of us realized just then what memories were going to be made there but from that day forward I hung on the words “We’re going to the cottage.”

Family Traditions

We developed a routine of sorts when heading for the place. Mom always put together a picnic lunch and it became tradition to stop at a little park near Colby and eat it. She also packed a white sack of Brach’s mixed candies that she brought out at the half way point. To this day every time I see one of those pink/brown/white coconut confections I think of those car rides.

As we turned off the highway and the lake came into view we all looked forward to Dad’s never-failing exclamation, “Looooon Lake!” as we drove past, knowing in a few short minutes our long drive would be over. 

Once we unloaded Dad asked who wanted to go get water. The cabin was a couple of miles from Copper Falls State Park and there was a rusty hand pump at a little picnic area not far from the falls. We used an old milk can as a container and whoever volunteered for this duty got a chance to pump the handle. Once Dad lugged it in, a battered metal ladle was hung on the rim. To this day I can’t recall tasting any sweeter beverage than the water from that can.

Next it was time to set up our sleeping area. We had a choice of inside or on the screen porch and I always went for the porch. We had a couple canvas army cots stacked in a corner and as I unfolded the wooden legs and unrolled my sleeping bag, I couldn’t imagine any finer accommodations. Once the cots were set up, Mom came out and sprayed the entire area with bug repellent and weirdly that aroma even now takes me back to that space.

As the years passed my parents put their own touches on the cottage. Mom procured a couple of gallons of discounted paint and on one visit turned the walls a hot pink. She even went so far as to paint the inside of the outhouse the same shade. Then she sewed up pink-striped curtains for the windows giving the interior a somewhat feminine, but definitely homey ambience.

Making Memories

It’s kind of funny what sticks in your mind when you’re exposed to vacations like these. Take for instance the bat.

I loved going to sleep on that screened porch. As I snuggled into my sleeping bag I often dosed off to the hoot of owls or some mysterious rustling in the woods but one night the wildlife got a little too close.

A couple of my siblings and I had just settled into our cots when we heard the frantic banging of an entrapped bat on the screens. Several times I felt the swoosh of the thing as it brushed over our heads and in unison we set up a panicked clamoring. 

My father called out for us to go to sleep but our alarm only grew until abruptly a light switched on, the door flung open, and there stood my mother, armed and ready for battle. In her dainty pink nightie, defiantly brandishing a broom over her head, she came over the threshold swinging, both hands gripping the handle like a switch hitter.

She flailed and swatted after that fluttering animal for a good while, hopping over our cots like a gazelle; running up and down the length of the porch Olympian style, all the while emitting muffled oaths at her near strikes. Each swing became more savage than the next and as a mother of five I can only imagine her frustration. Sleep was precious and a mere bat was not going to keep her from it.

Eventually she managed to pin the critter to the screen and, momentarily stunned, it fell to the floor. She raised the broom in hockey player fashion and boldly swept it out the door like a well delivered puck. Mission accomplished she threw the broom in the corner, jabbed a finger at us and sternly admonished, NOW GO TO SLEEP!

Fifty years later that tale still gets told and although Mom died 15 years ago her legacy as a bat conqueror lives on with her grandchildren and great grandchildren.

The Cottage is Sold

As we grew into teenagers our trips to the cottage became few and far between and eventually my parents sold the property. Now that 40 acres is part of Copper Falls State Park. 

Just for fun a few years back, I bumped down that same logging trail once again to see if I could recapture the magic of that slice of heaven. Unfortunately the cottage and outhouse were torn down and the spot is now just a fern covered patch, alarmingly, as if the structures had never been there. 

But oh so much of that spot still lingers in my brain. As I gazed up at the same towering trees I did as a kid, their leaves fluttering in the breeze, I could once again hear the sharp slam of the screen door; see Mom hanging our wet swimsuits on a clothesline strung between the trees; taste the pancakes Dad made us for breakfast every morning; watch the hazy smoke from a campfire rise and spread like a shroud through the branches. Even my mouth watered thinking of the crispy gooeyness of a fire roasted marshmallow squashed between a piece of chocolate and a couple of graham crackers. So many memories, so many great times.

Yep, I knew exactly why that kid was so excited and as I handed him his candy bar, I looked into that little face and smiled openly. 

“You’re right buddy,” I said. “I know how you feel. There’s nothing better than going to the cottage.”