lake house

When people talked about America, this is what I thought it was.

The family’s lake house is a time capsule. It has been (practically) preserved since my grandparents purchased it in the 70s, with its orange shag rug, field stone fireplace, mid-century furnishings, and collection of native-made artwork. In the cabinet are the very same Campbell’s Soup plates and Sundae dishes that my mom and her siblings ate from, after long days spent on the water and in the sun. In the basement is a bar overlooked by a painting of a busty barmaid, which to me are fixtures in any fun Wisconsin home, and a door that leads you straight out toward the lake. You are never “at the lake,” but “on the water,” I should mention.

There are three generations of stories here. I like the ones from my mother’s childhood the most. She’s one of six, all sisters and one brother - so many children that my grandmother has entire set of Little Women: Amy (my mom), Meg, Beth and Jo. One summer, they had a French foreign exchange student named Jacques. When he wasn’t sunbathing in his little European speedo, and pining for the beautiful sister who ignored him, he was rolling up his culottes to catch cray-fish which he then boiled for dinner. Growing up, they had a St. Bernard named Taurus. All those children and that sweet, massive dog. One Fourth of July, Taurus swam across the lake and stole an entire leg of ham from the neighbor’s party. My mom the tom boy, bored of simple skis, learned how to ride behind a boat on an aluminum garbage lid, a stolen traffic sign, and a plastic winter sled.

There’s also a dubious story of a black bear breaking into the basement while everyone was at a party upstairs. That’s one of those stories, where I might have the details wrong, and perhaps it happened to some great aunt, and not even in Manitowish. But like a good fish tale, where the daily catch miraculously grows inches bigger between re-tellings, the origins don’t matter as much as the story it becomes.

My own memories - learning how to waterski, muskies biting our toes, illegal fireworks, late bonfires - are in a way fundamental to my idea of myself. Every child grows up this way, I thought, holding a daisy rifle on the back of an ATV like some wild thing, and shivering in a Ralph Lauren linen dress on a beautiful lakefront while the aunts postured like Kennedys. It was so rugged and so posh. And when people talked about America, this is what I thought it was. Bare feet in the grass, a secret sip from the whiskey cabinet, traps built out of sticks to catch fairies… grandpa coming back from a day-long walk through the woods with a picked-clean bleached-white deer skull to say, “look, here, these were his summer antlers.”

I guess I’m thinking about the lake house because it was tradition to go up on the fourth. And it’s been years since I had to share the roll-out sofa with six of my cousins. I miss it. This weekend, a friend said to me: “You know, it’s not that I like *celebrating* the Fourth of July or what it represents, obviously. But in America we get so few days off that I’ll take it. Same with Thanksgiving.” And I agree, ‘patriotism’ and ‘liberty’ under capitalism is whatever, but hanging out is eternal.

Here are some photos from “up nort” I’d like to share with you. Hope you have a long and happy weekend.