JULY 22, 2024 – Here I sit on the porch of the Red Cabin, surrounded by the sound of a soft rain dancing on a billion leaves. In the background thunder rumbles unevenly but continuously. Through the trees that line the berm along the lakeshore 75 feet away I catch glimpses of the lake and the opposite shore more than two miles away, rendered twice as far and five times as mysterious by the mix of rain and distant mist.
In a chair across from me, under the warm light of a cabin porch floor lamp, my cousin Russ is reading the same space.com article he shared with me earlier—“Can the James Webb Space Telescope see galaxies over the universe’s horizon.” At a nearby table, his wife (Russ’s, not James Webb’s) Kerri and my wife Beth are playing cards and sipping mint-laced summer drinks.
None of us complains about the current weather conditions. In fact after three and a half days of glorious sunshine and magnificent moonlight, we are enjoying a classic old-fashioned summer storm at the cabin—without wind or inundation and so far, without losing power. The fresh rain and low-slung clouds contribute to an inviting ambience, perfect for hosting guests who seek and appreciate a few days of respite from the cacophony of the greater world.
Though their home is a million miles away, Russ and Kerri are no strangers to our woods. In fact, their roots here run deep. This is their fourth sojourn here this century; Russ’s fifth, counting the summer of 1959, when his parents, his Swedish grandmother and his Norwegian grandfather accompanied Russ to our old family cabin when he was three.
Kerri was born in Wisconsin and spent much time on another Wisconsin lake, where she developed memories woven into an extraordinary personal story; a memoir she has started but not finished; one filled with the stuff of a prize-winner; one deserving of critical acclaim, given her talent and dossier as a writer.
Russ and I share a common great-grandfather—August Svensson—and a great uncle, Alfred, who at 18 came to America over a century ago to make his fortune (and avoid Swedish military conscription). With plenty of gold in the pockets of his full-length fur coat, Alfred sailed back to Sweden, bought a farm, a sawmill, and handsome gifts for his family and neighbors. Then, with our great-grandfather’s help Alfred hitched a horse to the farm wagon and drove some 12 kilometers to the nearest town where Alfred deposited a tidy sum in the local bank.
Four of Alfred’s siblings—including our (Russ and mine) grandmothers—followed him to America. The sisters were best of friends, and after my grandparents built their summer cabin here in 1940, Russ’s grandparents—along with Russ’s mother and uncles—were annual visitors. Harry, the oldest uncle, and my dad, first cousins, were the same age and became best of friends for life. Dad often regaled us with stories of the cousins’ Northwoods escapades in this special corner of the world.
For the past several days, Russ and Kerri and Beth and I have engaged in nearly non-stop conversation. Remarkably, though we are on the same political wavelength, it took Biden’s bombshell announcement Sunday to get us talking politics. (Notably, our phones began pinging in concert with upbeat Democratic solicitations.)
But despite this news and the non-stop chatter that has doubtless ensued among pundits and commentators, we’ve remained absorbed in the larger world of nature that surrounds us.
Yesterday, I led Russ on an expedition through the tree garden. An avid hiker and trail blazer, he was undaunted by the bugs, heat, and humidity. I was eager to show him the progress among the legions of white and red pine I’ve been cultivating, some of which have added three feet or more of height this season. As we bushwhacked our way along the trails, we were astonished by the aggressive growth fed by abundant rain and warmth. Large clumps of ripening berries and thickets of forest ferns, some four feet high, hid a vast network of layered life underneath. Our walk in the woods distracted us completely from the imponderable problems of civilization.
Yesterday evening we took a slow quiet pontoon ride for a tour of the lake, a look at the sunset, and a view of the moonrise. We looked in awe at four eagles and their enormous aeries; we watched with wonder as the full orange moon rose among the clouds and revealed a few of its secrets through the lenses of our binoculars.
* * *
Following a late dinner on the porch, we played a delicate game of Jenga using large “timbers.” We topped off at 30 “floors” before Kerri razed the tower by attempting a 31st.
After nightfall, I summoned an old-but-good slide projector back into service. On a bedsheet suspended over the edge of the loft, I showed six carousals’ worth of family slides—Russ as a three-year old; me at two and me at twenty; Russ’s parents, uncles and grandparents, along with my grandparents, parents, and sisters at the cabin so many decades ago.
All of our shared time surrounded by the same natural beauty that drew earlier generations together serves as an amalgamated bonding agent. For this we are filled with a spirit of renewal, and for that, in turn, we shall be forever grateful.
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
