At age 64, I have many fond memories from time spent at the cabin on Roosevelt Lake. My dad and his best friend, along with two childhood friends, built it in 1957. The cabin was robin-egg blue in color and modest in size. Sheltered beneath the canopy of century-old red and white pines, the cabin was home for my family one week every summer.
The first order of business upon arrival was fishing off the dock with cane poles and poppers for sunfish. As we grew older our boundaries to roam were expanded past the dock to Woods Bay and beyond. During the morning hours we would take turns rowing and casting Bass-Oreno lures for bass. In the afternoon we would try for perch and crappies.
Walking the gravel roads searching for agates was like a treasure hunt to us. I can’t tell you how many rocks I licked over the years to see if they were keepers. On each trip the person who found the largest would be awarded a prize. My younger brother still has tin coffee cans full of them.
If weather conditions were just right, we would pick wild raspberries the size of peas along the same gravel road where we found agates. Then Dad would go to town and return with a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream. We would devour this as soon as he got back to the cabin, since the old hand-me-down freezer would not keep ice cream frozen for more than a couple hours. Back then it did not take much to keep us busy and happy.
As years passed, my wife and our three children headed up north to the cabin for our own family vacations. I found myself doing the exact same things with them that we did years before. The kids grew up way too fast, and before we knew it they were off to college and trade school. They now have small children of their own. Maybe someday they’ll take their own kids to the cabin up north. If they do, I hope Grandma and Grandpa are included.
My dad passed away in 2010. I know my brother and sister will always treasure the times and memories as much as I do. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the summer vacations at the cabin on Roosevelt Lake.
DON BLAU, MAPLE GROVE