During the 1930s, my dad lived in poverty. His family's apartment was above the Melrose, Minn., bakery, and he'd help with bread deliveries to nearby Big Birch Lake. Captivated by the sparkling sunlight on the water, he promised himself that he'd own a cabin there someday.

This dream came true in 1959 when he and my mom were 30. Already the parents of five kids and suburban Minneapolis homeowners, they bought a parcel of land for $9 per foot of shoreline. Our square cabin soon stood a short distance from the water, facing the sunrise and cheering on our childhoods. Even the dog got excited when packing began for another weekend at the cabin. It was where we were free to run down gravel roads and roam into our imaginations in the forest. Often barefoot, the soles of our feet developed tough, protective skin. We encouraged turtles in races across the yard and trained chipmunks to scurry up our arms in pursuit of peanuts. By 5, we were water skiing. Somehow our parents corralled our energy, and we'd tour around the lake aboard our canvas-sided pontoon boat. Its 5-horsepower motor was fast enough, and through the years a cradle and toddler games on deck were replaced by leaping and splashing games of tennis ball tag. Friends and relatives along the shore welcomed us to dock and visit. The good times took precedence over the setting sun; we knew we'd navigate home by the colorful glow adjacent to our dock — a yellow light bulb wired to a tree.

My four siblings and I slept in one large upstairs room partitioned by a hanging sheet. Through a small hole in the knotty pine stairway wall, we spied on our parents' late-night parties. We had our own party one warm summer night in 1969. Crowding onto one bed, we stayed up late watching the live television broadcast of the moon landing. It was just one of many moments at the cabin when we learned that anything is possible.

Our cabin was sold in 1981 and has since been extensively remodeled. I visited once and was astonished by the changes. Kindly, the new owner opened a cabinet door so I could see my dad's handwriting was still scribbled there, indicating which hook was for the boat keys.

A special moment with my siblings unexpectedly occurred this past summer at my sister's lake home. While enjoying a pontoon boat ride, all five of us randomly jumped into the lake at the same time. The youngest of us is now 56, the oldest 66. We had been children of the 1960s with a treasured cabin on a lake, immersed in nature and inspired by possibilities.

Jill Klapperich Guth, Golden Valley