On Pike Lake in northern Wisconsin where I grew up, nearly
all of the houses were built high above the water. To reach the lake, you had
to get down thirty or more feet of embankment covered with oak and birch trees,
and numerous plants including poison ivy. Homeowners put in long flights of
stairs made of wood or brick, or carved out winding dirt paths. A neighbor’s house,
however, was the only home built right on the water, on a small peninsula that
I can only describe as a bit of fairy land.
In this house dwelt a reclusive old timer somewhere in his
seventies or eighties. Although the neighborhood, while still forest-y in most
places, was largely residential, at one point this old timer small-farmed his
property. To reach the road, he had to go up a quarter mile or so, and on the
way he had forest on the right hand, and bits of open field on the left and up
near his square brick garage which held an old car he drove once in awhile to
the store. I surmised he must have farmed a bit because he sold part of his
property to my father which included a “boathouse,” in actuality a small animal
barn.
In the back of the barn was a dried out old chicken coop
with tiered wood nesting areas, ancient brown straw and rusty chicken wire. The
barn’s attic must have served as a hay mow, because the ceiling inside had a
square opening with no ladder and the front of the attic had a large door into
which farmers usually pitchfork up hay or straw. My guess is the farmer grew
straw for his chickens and pitched it up into the mow, because although he had
enough room for a cow or two, he would not have had sufficient pasture to
support these. He must have stopped farming sometime in the 1940s or 1950s. My
father used the small barn alternatively as a boathouse, tentatively as a party
spot with an old wood bar, and a garden house when he put in a vegetable garden
for a few years. Later on we made a playhouse there.
But the old man’s property is still with me now, because we
played there so often. His very plain old farmhouse looked a bit like this.
Many an early 20th century farmhouse looked like this. photo of Dane County 1910 house by Joann M. Ringelstetter |
I don’t remember much about the old timer, except he used to
visit the apple tree that he had put in, or my father did, right on the edge of
the property. One day he brought up a stool and picked up fallen apples from
the ground. My brother and I spotted him sitting under the apple tree. I was four
or five years old and my brother three, perhaps. The old man cracked acorns
from the red oak trees on my father’s property just below. He beckoned us over.
“These are good to eat,” he said, cracking open a few
acorns.
We tried the acorns which were so bitter we ran, spitting
them out and laughing. The old man laughed too, but continued to eat them
himself. Later on when I broke open green acorns and pinched the nuts sometimes
they broke apart into powder. I read about how people made flour from acorns
back in the old days, and that idea made sense to me when remembering the old
man eating from the oak trees.
“Oh that never happened,” my father said years later, when I
told him about the old man feeding us acorns.
“It did too happen,” I insisted. He shook his head.
After all, I had tried nearly every plant possible that grew
in the forest, right down to the stems of the water lilies. I even tried some
poisonous plants, like the sumac, though I wasn’t stupid enough to eat the
berries or the leaves. But sumac branches can be peeled and split open, the
spongy core inside is pleasant to chew like gum. I know the acorn story is true
because I could just as easily have tried eating the acorns on my own, and
surely I would remember learning for myself how they taste. I didn’t need to
make up a story about the old timer living in the house below us, feeding
acorns to me and my brother.
But the real lure of his property was the truly fairy
quality of the water, the grass and the forest. I imagine he worked out a rural
living during the Depression and war years on his chickens, maybe a goat,
acorns and berries. Ducks laid eggs in the woods near the water, and fish were
easy to catch right from the shore, or on the ice in winter. With a bit of
coffee, salt, flour and butter I bet that old man got by just fine with his
eggs, some squirrels, duck, fish and maybe a deer or two. I remember water and
sewer lines were put in all down his driveway when I was about seven or so,
after the old timer died and a wealthy family from Madison bought his property
to use as a summer house. I shudder to think what the old man did for sewer
before that.
In winter, my brother and I used the long dirt ruts of the
driveway as a sledding track. When the snow packed just right, we could sled
all way down and around to the water, so fast we ended up well out onto the
lake ice. A long walk back up and down again we flew. One magical winter the
Madison family children visited their summer home, they were young adults and
joined in on the sledding at night, turning on the outdoor lights, grabbing one
of us little kids and jumping onto the sled. The family didn’t visit often.
So in summer time, the rest of the property was our
playground. We found beds of moss covered with canopies of bushes that became
imaginary houses. We found an old tree house in the woods, not much left except
the sturdy platform and a few beams, maybe a deer stand rather than a playhouse.
We went into the old man’s garage and looked at his car, and later the boat
kept there by the Madison family. I don't remember what kind of car the old man had, but it was big and old, not like my dad's blue Chevy.
I dressed up in long dresses and ran barefoot over the soft
grass, imagining I was a princess. The house faced the lake to the northwest,
and only in summer could the sun reach the house. In the late summer afternoon,
the sun shone golden on the peninsula and shimmered along the dock.
One early summer when I was a young teenager, I walked
around the mossy woods above the old man’s house and saw asparagus, a huge
patch of stalks eighteen inches tall and some even taller. I never saw
asparagus there before. I know that asparagus can return year after year, but
who planted it, and when? I ran back to the house and coaxed my father to come
look. After some convincing, he walked out there and sure enough, we cut down a
lot of asparagus that day. The stalks looked like magic staves coming up from
the weedy green forest floor, wielded by the wizardly tall birch trees. I
peeled their paper and cut plaque fungus for carving, wondering what else I
could make from birch bark. I knew about Chippewa canoes, but only later seeing
Russian birch bark basket art did I understand fully possibilities I could only
intuit as a child.
The old man never invited us into his house, and we didn’t
dare go close when we saw him about. But later on when playing near his house,
long after it became a summer home, we noticed two small doors at ground level.
We opened these, and they clearly held yard tools in a space under the house.
But we were small enough to play in there, under the trellis-covered open spots
beneath the house. One day, while playing under the house we found an old iron
key. Indeed it was a key to the house. Finally we could see the inside of the house
we only imagined before, the house on the fairy peninsula. The key opened one
of the doors, and in we went.
To our surprise, the inside of the house had yellow, pine wood
paneled walls, and plain tweed furniture, like maybe early 1960s small couches,
chairs, lots of very basic places to sit. We saw a tiny kitchen and even tinier
bedrooms. At this point the house was just an ordinary summer cabin, like so
many others on lakes in Wisconsin at that time. The fancy new owners clearly
hadn’t done much of anything to improve the place. It looked like the old man
still lived there with an old coffee can and not much else. We didn’t take or
touch anything, but we kept the key to the fairy house, which was just an
ordinary wood farm house after all.
Yet the fairy peninsula was everything, still is everything,
all of my religious vocation, the spiritual pursuits, the soft grasses and
mosses and herbs, the chicken coop, the trees and the asparagus. Thinking of it
brings me a timeless peace, for the land there never flooded and the house
still stands even after more than a century. In my mind’s eye I still stand on
the grass beneath the trees there in the summer sun during the moments of greatest
duress, in moments of violence and human horror, bare feet on damp moss in a
place of no fear. Often I have wondered what people do without this, though I
suppose in a city children may find secret places of repose. I
know people speak of Central Park this way, even in the middle of New York
City.
I should find a photo of the place, I think to myself, for
all that it meant to me, still my mind’s spot to lose myself. Looking around on
the net, oh, I find one! The property was sold not long ago.
photo WoodburyRealtors property listing |
I feel certain now the wood paneling inside is long gone,
and the interior matches the promises outdoors. The house probably has an amazing
bath and fancy kitchen. Surely this is so, for the photo is from a real estate
listing which says the property sold for $399,000. The old man probably never
imagined this kind of money. Or maybe he knew all along, as we did, that what
he held onto for so many years, so plain and ordinary for him, is someday worth
so much more.
Wonderfully evocative writing, thank you.
ReplyDeleteBravo.
ReplyDeleteThis is why I read your blog. I love your writing.
ReplyDelete