In 1925,shortly after my parents were married, my dad was diagnosed with a recurrence of the tuberculosis he had as a child. In the 1920s, the treatment for TB was to rest. Dad was teaching at Michigan Agricultural College, so he was able to take the summer off. They rented a cabin on little Blue Lake, Michigan, near the town of Mecosta.
Mom reported that it was a slow summer, neither of them being much for leisure. Her main accomplishment was landing a large pike which gave her bamboo pole and light line a definite challenge. Dad had little to say about the summer, but the TB went into remission, so the lazy lifestyle did its work.
After my brother, Charles, and I were born, Mom and Dad rented a cabin on the lake for a week each summer. In the 1930s,cabins were really cabins. Ours featured an outhouse, a pump at the kitchen sink, and wobbly Restless Floor Syndrome. However, as a nod to culture, there was a floor model wind-up phonograph with seven or eight 78 rpm records.
The phonograph was a grand source of entertainment for Charles and me because it was very tired and continually changed speeds. It turned our favorite song, “When You and I Were Young, Maggie,” into an atonal monstrosity worthy of any science fiction film. He and I learned to sing in quarter-tone intervals, somewhere between black and white adjoining piano keys. I credit my acceptable musical ear to these vocal nuances. We both ended up in the music business, teaching (both) and writing music education college texts (Charles).
Some 50 feet in front of the cabin we enjoyed a small dock, complete with a rowboat. Dad couldn’t swim, so when he took us fishing, he held an oar upright on the bottom to be sure it was shallow enough for him to rescue us. I don’t recall life jackets. They definitely weren’t part of our Blue Lake culture.
One day, anchored about seven feet from shore, Dad and I caught lots of white bass. I, around six at the time, was unsurprised - we were fishing, after all. But apparently this was an almost unheard-of accomplishment. Our white bass story was shared for many years.
The nights were dark, so dark that at bedtime Charles and I, in our cots on the porch, whispered that maybe we were actually blind. We held our hands inches from our eyes, and saw only black, prompting us to turn on the flashlight to make sure we were okay.
Once, when we took a walk on the two-track road behind the cottage, Dad, leading the way, heard me scream in terror. I wasn’t a screamer, so he took me seriously, turning in time to see a little green snake exiting my sandal between instep and sole. I wasn’t much into walking for the rest of that vacation.
Dad was shaving at the kitchen sink one morning when we heard stomping, thumping, slamming, and shouting from that room. The cabin shook on its concrete supports. When it seemed safe, we ran to Dad. “What on earth happened?” Mom asked.
“Mouse came out from under the sink,” he said. “Didn’t want it to run up my pant leg.” Who among us would scorn him for his actions?
Charles and I were about 12 and 9 when we decided to build a teddy-bear sized boat for Basementville, the stuffed animal community that lived in our East Lansing basement. Charles had reached an age where he didn’t share this play with his peers, but he and I spent hours dramatizing the life of our little enclave. It was during World War Two. One of the residents, Kitty, had turned into a Hitler-type tyrant, attempting to boss everyone around and make their lives miserable. We thought that certain choice stuffed creatures would enjoy a break at Blue Lake.
During that winter, at the crude workbench behind the furnace in the basement, we sawed and nailed thick pieces of pine into a shape that more or less resembled a rowboat. We painted it red, added a block seat and packed it to the lake the following summer. Our clumsy craft successfully carried various stuffed toys on many cruises during that week.
On our return, the “Basementville News,” which we painfully poked out on Dad’s typewriter, reported that the boat was a big success.
Now, many years later, I can still clearly picture the way the lake looked long ago when I lay on my stomach peering over the edge of our dock - small ridges of sand studded with tiny shells and smooth pebbles, the rippled surface of the water, and the occasional dart of a minnow.
About 40 years ago my husband and I drove to Blue Lake. It was almost entirely private. There was no way to drive on our long-ago two-land path. Maybe it’s just as well. I can enjoy my memories, untouched and perfect with their rich patina of time.
