Our cabin, built in 1950, sports an antenna that was likely installed that same year. It has brought in many a signal to our small place. The summer of Watergate, we watched the news unfold in the heat, commenting and reflecting and debating what had happened: What was the truth; what did our country stand for; were we being tricked?

Steamy summer evenings, hot even on a lake, were spent watching Dave Letterman, his spicy sarcasm delicious as long as you were not the butt of his jokes. His edgy, irreverent brand of humor was a way for my mom and I to bond — her progressive thinking always younger then she was. In those days, Letterman appeared at midnight, which meant his show ended past 1 a.m. Which meant you really had to languish in a summer bed until at least noon to catch up on your sleep.

The antenna has wavered slightly in some of the intense summer weather, but never really faltered in its mission. Even in the digital turnover, which still baffles me, it seems to soldier on. We suck in about five channels, depending on weather. Wind is not good on reception; neither are leaves on trees. Heavy snow is also a deal-breaker.

We surf from channel to channel trying to find the one that will bring in the news of the outside, bigger world. We go to this cabin to retreat, withdraw, protect ourselves. Back in the day of nuclear worries, my mom always said that this is where we would go if it should come to total societal collapse. Away, away from any damage humans would do to larger cities.

The antenna has been that thin thread, demanding that we stay connected. That, in our withdrawal from the world, we continue to think about it. Decide how to act on it. Wonder about it. See the world within its natural context.

Our modern connection is to the Internet; we strain to capture it, really only finding a slow, haphazard connection on our dock and on select parts of our tiny property.

But the new thread isn't as reassuring. We can't see it, touch it or jiggle the wires to improve connectivity. As I age, the world seems more tenuous, less predictable; things happen quickly before I can prepare for them.

So we hang on to our antenna. Fifty-plus years of work, still reaching for the signals — dim, changed, but sturdy. Rising through the mystery of the Internet, stalwart in the world of signals we cannot see.

Kris Potter lives in Minneapolis.