NOVEMBER 22, 2023
“BJÖRNHOLM” – GRINDSTONE LAKE, NW WISCONSIN – JANUARY 1, 1972 / AUGUST 5, 1972
My arms loaded with firewood, I trudged through the snow from the woodpiles and toward the back steps of the cabin. Millions of stars lit up the heavens above, and the bitter cold of the first day of the new year had yielded to an even colder night. Years before, Dad had attached a thermometer to the oak tree near the back steps. Upon first glance, I thought the mercury had drained right out of the thermometer.
I continued up the steps and into the cabin. Björn was lying down among the rugs we’d propped and piled on the floor of the back porch, which, though fully enclosed and part of the main structure of the cabin proper, was not insulated. The dog leapt to his feet as if to attention, as if he were a dutiful student, I thought, standing out of respect upon the entry of a “master” at Sterling School. I patted him on top of his head, as his panting emitted small clouds of vapor.
“That’s okay, Björn,” I said. “You don’t need to stand up.” The dog remained standing at attention. “Lie down,” I said, and he obeyed, returning to the warmth of his lair under the porch table. With my arms still full of firewood, I was about to use an awkward hand to open the latch of the door to the kitchen, when Dad came to my aid.
“Thermometer says 20 below out,” I said, as Dad quickly closed the door behind me.
Without comment, Dad followed me over to the fireplace, where I dumped the load of firewood into the woodbox. Dressed in his baggy woolen pants, flannel shirt and insulated vest, Dad pushed the ends of the firewood so the pieces would settle to the bottom of the box.
“Think we outta bring Björn in from the porch for the night?” Dad asked, as he removed two pieces of wood from the box and placed them on the hearth.
Dad’s question surprised me. He never asked anyone what he should do. He always knew what to do, and he had long known that he did not want a big dog inside his house or cabin. “Ya mean you’d bring him inside the cabin?” I said, removing my hat and mittens.
“Well,” Dad said, pulling the fireplace screen aside and taking the tongs from the tool stand on the other side of the fireplace. “Every once in a while a guy’s gotta do the right thing.” He positioned each of the pieces of firewood perfectly on the grate. “Besides,” he said, smiling ironically, “who’s gonna know except you and I?”
I walked back to the kitchen and opened the porch door. “Come on, Björn,” I said. “Come on in.” Björn jumped to his feet and wagged his tail, but he didn’t move toward me. I tried to coax him in, but he stood firm. “Come on, boy,” I said. “Here’s your chance to see the inside of a house.” Stepping onto the porch floor, I pushed gently against the floor, leaving it ajar but closing off from Dad what I wanted to add. “Who knows when Dad’s ever going to let us do this again? Come on. Make the most of it.”
I felt Dad nudge the door open against my back and stepped forward. “He doesn’t wanna come in?” he asked.
“No.”
Dad joined me on the porch and pushed the door against the escaping heat. “Kommer hitt, Björn,”—Come here, Björn—said Dad, but Björn remained steadfast. Dad took the leash off the hook on the porch side of the door, and attached it to Björn’s collar. He opened the door to tug him into the kitchen, but Björn refused to budge. “Come on!” Dad urged, pulling so hard that Björn’s paws dragged along the floor until they met the threshold.
“Huh,” Dad grunted. “Imagine that. He doesn’t wanna come in.”
“What should we do?” I said.
Dad answered by bending down and with his long arms, scooping up the big dog and lifting him into the cabin. I was too surprised to move. “Shut the door, will ya?” Dad said, bringing me to my senses. I pulled the door shut as Dad set his reticent friend down on the warm hearth. Björn shuddered, as if to shake out the cold from his fur. He sniffed curiously, all around the fireplace, looked up at us, and sniffed some more.
“It’s all right, pojka,”—boy, said Dad. “You’re in here with us now, where you’ll be good and warm.” Björn circled, then lay down, half on the hearth, and half on the rug in front of the hearth. “Wanna bring in his water dish and his food?” Dad said. I did so and returned to the fireplace. Björn peered into the flames, as dumfounded by Dad’s actions as was I. In time, the dog lowered his head, rested his lower jaw on his forelegs and drifted off to sleep.
Dad refilled his cup from the coffee pot he’d been maintaining all day. The cup now doubled as a hand-warmer. He walked slowly to the fireplace, knelt down beside the slumbering dog and looked at him admiringly. After a few moments, Dad stretched out his right hand and patted Björn gently. “Du är en fin hund,” Dad said. “Du är en mycket fin hund.”—You are a fine dog. You are a very fine dog.
* * *
The following June of that year, 1972, I graduated from high school. A week later, the four “men” of the family—Grandpa, Dad, Björn and I—headed up to Björnholm to open up the cabin for the summer season. Given Grandpa’s advanced age, Dad’s busy schedule, and my being away at school, none of us had not been to Björnholm since that bitterly cold New Year’s weekend. It would be Grandpa’s last summer at his Shangri-La.
After Dad and I had attended to all the essential tasks—taking off the shutters, putting on the screens, turning on the plumbing, mowing the knee-high wild grass in the area immediately around the cabin—Dad got down to the brass tacks of cabin projects.
The first involved a power drill, step-ladder, and measuring tape, but the centerpiece of the project was a large wooden sign on which he had a craftsman carve the name, BJÖRNHOLM. Before having put it in the car trunk for the trip to the lake, Dad had shown it to me proudly, saying how good it look over the back door of the cabin. In the hanging of the sign, I served as Dad’s assistant, and Grandpa stiffly ambled a few yards out into the yard to watch. Björn ran free.
After Dad had tightened the last screw, he stepped down off the ladder and walked out to Grandpa’s side. “What do you think?” he asked.
“I think your mother would’ve been pleased with that sign . . .” Grandpa said wistfully, leaning on his cane. “And she would have been pleased with Björn. I’m sure of that.”
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
