AUGUST 13, 2025 – Today (now yesterday) my wife and I spent in a kind of nirvana—otherwise the Red Cabin in the company of our younger son, his wife and their two-year-old son. For one more full day at the lake, we got to interact with the little guy and watch him absorb all that was going on in his fleeting “memory,” per se, but doubtless a multitude of lasting impressions formed on his fast-developing brain. He certainly made many lasting impressions on us—experiences that most definitely registered as very fond memories for us, his grandparents.
He woke at 7:00 sharp, in effect serving as our alarm clock. This contrasted with olden times when my grandparents were always up and active before any of the rest of us. By the time I woke up, my grandmother was already feeding the robust fire inside the wood-burning stove in the kitchen and preparing one of her legendary cabin breakfasts of oatmeal, soft-boiled eggs and toast, roasted bacon and her trademark cinnamon rolls. Grandpa, meanwhile, was outside chopping more wood to keep the stove fire going.
But times have changed.
After an all-you-could-eat breakfast of Beth’s patented French toast served with real Wisconsin maple syrup, we set out on a walk down our winding drive to Yopps Road, then down Yopps to “Rustic” John’s three-cabin-plus-repurposed-caboose-plus-cook-shanty-on-the-hill-plus-three-sizable-out-building compound. Beth had called ahead to see if John would accommodate our grandson’s affinity for trucks and tractors. “Sure,” he’d said, so there we were, ready to put our little guy on the seat of a tractor . . . or two.
John did one better. He handed Byron the key to the John Deere tractor and gave him an ever so brief tutorial on how to run the machine. After “Pappa” took his seat and started up the tractor, his “Mamma” handed him off to “Pappa,” and off they went. Byron drove like a pro, as if he were a volunteer giving free rides at the kiddy version of Machinery Hill at the State Fair. I was impressed by both his proficiency and the “user-friendly” engineering of John Deere. With cameras snapping away, we all followed Byron giving his son a joyride.
After “Running like a Deer,” father and son were encouraged by John to try out the “Club Car,” an EV with plenty of punch. In time we left our neighbor’s amusement park and hiked back to the Red Cabin.
The rest of the day was devoted to our grandson: time in the sandbox, in the wading pool, running back and forth a million times between dock and cabin, and throwing more rocks into the lake. Cuter than a button with his luscious curls and cheerful face, he is now on the cusp of talking. One of our favorite activities these past few days has been “talking” with him; testing out new words and phrases and reinforcing ones he already knows, in French and English. “Merci,” he says, after we’ve handed him a toy, and “Ferme la porte!” we say, when he opens the sliding screen door between porch and house and runs along forgetting to close the door behind him.
On the dock and on the boat, he finds much to keep himself occupied, which is all that Byron’s parents and grandparents need to be occupied. His favorite activity on both dock and boat was to lean over the edge as far as he could (but of course!) while one or both his parents kept a tight grip on the handles to his life vest.
“At sea” he got to watch three sets of loons close up and an ever so playful lake otter—twice, including the time yesterday when the creature swam right under the dock where everyone sat.
What a delight it is to have a two-year-old in our midst. After dinner this evening we took a sunset cruise—soon after the sun had set. Our plan was to stay out on the lake until we saw some stars. The goal took a while, but once the celestial lights began to appear, the cutest toddler in the whole wide world . . . fell asleep in his Pappa’s arms. Another time, I thought, he’ll experience the heavenly light show above this wondrous lake.
For now his parents and grandparents took delight in what reminded me of a symphony—at the beginning, a quiet entrance by a solo woodwind, joined a while thereafter by another, and another, until the strings come in full force, backed by the brass. As the sky transformed into a deep velour, the whole stellar ensemble issued forth far too many notes, phrases, passages . . . constellations . . . to count. The wee one remained sound asleep, but the celestial performers are patient. They’ll still be taking to the stage when the two-year old returns next year and the many years after that. It’s all part of his inheritance and the inheritance of all young people who have the chance to look skyward at the nighttime sky far from the madding crowd.
What I will miss about this age is the near constant curiosity and learning that stimulates the flowering brain. Watching him . . . scamper barefoot across the carpet of moss in the front yard; smell the wintergreen leaf that his grandmother folds in half and holds to his nose; float on the inflated tube that his father pulls along the dock; grasp the wild daisy that his Mamma picks and hands him on a walk; express his delight at the row of young mallards as they paddle by; chase after the soap bubbles that his Mamma blows from her patio chair; and his smile as I grasp the little fella’s wrists and recite “Patty-cake, Patty-cake”—for the hundredth time—at the end of which he says, “Mo-a?” for “more.”
As Rich Dworsky sang at the end of each segment of “Ketchup (the Good Years)” on A Prairie Home Companion, “These are the good years . . .”
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
