George's place had been a stopping point on my dad's Sunday afternoon drives for as long as I can remember. In winter 1972, I skied his milelong driveway to visit George, a reclusive bachelor who lived on the far side of a small lake in northern Hubbard County. Two freshly baked loaves of bread lay in his wood-box, and he was covered, head to foot, with flour. I mentioned that should he sell part of the land along with the old barn, I would be interested in restoring the structure. We closed the deal the following spring.
George had emigrated from Sweden and settled on 11 acres of lakeshore in the early 1900s. He built a small house along with a storehouse, a wood shed, a root cellar and the two-story log barn. He had also made a primitive road access with the aid of an old white horse. The pilings of a bridge, an incomplete project that would span a narrow part of the lake, are still visible beneath the waves. Stories hint that he was hiding out from the law.
My wife and I had just begun our first project on the barn — clean the manure from the bottom level and pour a cement floor — but life can take some unexpected turns. Only 27 years old, she died from diabetic complications. The barn became my refuge, my psychiatrist. I was a teacher in St. Paul, but drove to the barn every weekend. I lived on site during the summer months and kept busy with projects. With family members and friends, we cleaned the hay out of the second story; replaced the roof with cedar shakes; chiseled in a level second floor; set new windows and doors; chinked the cracks, brought in electricity; and built a split-stone fireplace. Over the next few years, the barn slowly turned into a respectable cabin.
The barn, next to the lake and surrounded by state- and county-owned forestland, is a mecca for wildlife. Memories abound of deer-hunting seasons, crappie fish fries and the day the northern pike went crazy. Family enjoyed the partridge festivals — a cast-iron pan with two dozen birds, covered with mushroom soup and simmering for hours over an open campfire. Good times in a special place.
I eventually bought the remainder of George's land. I remarried, and I now am retired and living in the area. We educated our kids, and they moved away for better economic opportunities. Many outstate families face this same dilemma, "What to do with the cabin?" Will that next generation have the means or the interest in retaining the land or traveling back to visit? George had his own reasons for choosing this property, and I had mine. Today, I occasionally just sit next to the rocks that held so many campfires, listen to the wind in the trees and watch the loons out on the water. The barn still is my psychiatrist.
Harold Fenske, Tenstrike, Minn.
