AUGUST 21, 2026 – Today at 10:00 I was left in sole charge of our three-year-old grandson . . . at the Red Cabin. “Will you be home before lunch?” I asked, as my wife, daughter-in-law and infant granddaughter exited the back of the cabin to head for town. (Byron had departed yesterday to ferry our guests of the past week down to the Twin Cities; he wasn’t slated to return until late this afternoon.) I’d observed that at noon every day, D.’s parents embark on a convoluted course of food preparation for the little guy. Apart from boiling water for the orzo, I knew the process was beyond my culinary skill. I didn’t want to be held responsible for the consequences of off-schedule malnourishment
“Yeah, of course,” our daughter-in-law said confidently. She’d already handed me a snack-pack of two small Milano cookies and Pom’potes, “in case D. gets hungry.”
As the day unfolded, however, the expedition into Hayward wouldn’t return until well after 2:00. At around 11:30, I’d already broken out the cookies and Pom’potes. At 1:00 I peeled an apple and sliced up half of it to make sure D. wouldn’t die of starvation on my watch. In case of any future inquisition, I did ask him repeatedly, “D. are you hungry?” He always replied in the negative—though I knew his response wouldn’t be exculpatory.
Soon after the adults left, the fun began. We picked up from where we’d been interrupted: a hefty collection of 5-Minute Paw Patrol Stories. As the taillights of Beth’s car disappeared around the first bend of the drive behind the Red Cabin, D. and I put the book aside (I’d been reading aloud for 20 minutes) and headed outside. For the next hour, we hung out on the dock, set up and ran an obstacle course umpteen times, climbed up in the treehouse repeatedly (or rather, D. did) and slid down the slide—all before our visitors arrived from the old family cabin, my sister Jenny and her daughter Maia. Being the sociable sort, D. was in his element, as we yakked and bantered on the porch.
Two o’clock came and went before I knew it. For four hours D. and I had logged quality “cabin time” together. Thanks to his parents’ attachment to the place, D.—and in time, his sister, I hope—will follow suit. Today’s activities certainly added to the foundation of D.’s own connection to Björnholm and the Red Cabin.
The real fun, however, came this evening after dinner. Right at sunset we launched the pontoon, this time with another couple—friends of Byron and Mylène. On our way “out to sea,” we pulled alongside the dock at Björnholm to take on additional passengers—Maia, Jenny, and our older sister Elsa. Until well into twilight, we cruised around our quarter of the lake, marveling at fading pastels in the western sky and the tantalizing play of light across the calm waters.
A fair distance from shore, our guest Kumar asked if he could dive off the pontoon for a swim. As captain of safety, by way of my captaincy of the ship, I demurred. It’s never safe to swim in deep waters in the dark, no matter how strong the swimmer. I turned toward shore and motored until I knew we were in safer waters. There I turned on the boat’s headlights and cut the engine. “Okay,” I said. “Here, you can swim, but only close to the boat, and only where we can see you.” The water was armpit deep and grew shallower quickly. Byron joined Kumar.
Reacting to all this was D. He wanted to join his pappa and Kumar and began to cry when Byron pulled himself back on board.
“D., you can go swimming tomorrow,” he said, comforting his son.
“No, I wanna swim with pappa now!”
Everyone yelled, “No, D.!” when he began to remove his PFD.
“You have to leave that on,” said Byron. D. put up no resistance to this imperative but insisted on going in the water with his pappa. Pappa relented. “Okay, D. We’ll take off your clothes but leave your life jacket on. Then pappa will hold you in the water, okay?”
“Okay,” said the three-year-old, wiping the tears away from his sleepy eyes.
Pappa and I then maneuvered the boat closer to shore and over a broad sandy area in water less than three feet deep and close to the reach of our yard lights on the front of the Red Cabin. There Kumar and Byron disembarked again, this time to lift D. into the water.
Just before Byron stepped next to the boat deck to lift D off, however, D. announced that he needed to go “pee-pee.” This involved temporary removal of his PFD by his mother and her holding onto him as he peed out over the bow. The arc of the pee-line was so impressively high and far, it brought an instantaneous outburst of laughter from all aboard, as we saw it in the light of the port-side head light. The golden stream barely missed Byron’s shoulder. D. sparked more laughter when several cameras clicked (from behind) and D. said emphatically (and appropriately), “No photos!”
After a brief time in the lake, D. was ready for a towel to chase away the shivers. Kumar and Byron boarded the vessel, and I navigated back to the Red Cabin dock to permit everyone (and everything) except Elsa, Jenny and Maia to disembark, then shuttled those three to the dock down the hill from the old cabin before motoring back down to “the landing,” or “home port.” There, the able deckhands—Kumar and Byron—manhandled the pontoon onto the boat lift.
To round out the evening, Byron built a small campfire in the fire pit out front. D. was permitted to stay up past his usual bedtime to luxuriate in the warmth of the nicely prepared fire. I was sitting on the porch, working on this post, when D. called out, “Grandpa! Come out to the fire!” I hurried outside to join the others round the fire pit. “Look out for the fire,” said D. “If you get too close you’ll be on fire.” I appreciated his concern for my safety.
When Byron told D. that before going to bed he could “check on the stars and moon with Grandpa,” I jumped at the chance. Leading D. onto the nearby dock, I told the cheerful little fella how much I enjoyed having him and his parents and sister at the Red Cabin; how very happy it made me. Maybe he’ll remember those words, but more likely not. But by each step, each day, each boat trip, each hand-in-hand walk out on the dock to gaze at stars and moon, a grandparent can instill much in the mind and memory of a grandchild—especially one who is a “cabin kid.”
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
