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HERE IS A STORY DEBBY WROTE AND WAS PUBLISHED IN THE HINCKLEY NEWS
The ad read, "Vintage, 1950's lake cabin..." As
we
drove up the long, wooded lot we were greeted by a
ugly mustard (dijon not salad) colored cabin. Small
wooden
pigs, ducks, cats and a myriad of other
creatures were placed randomly around the yard. Upon
opening the front door,
my lungs were filled with the
thick air that hung stagnant in every corner. The
cabin lay dormant as if waiting for
one more summer
picnic.
We walked down to the lake and onto the dock. Even the
water lay still, just waiting for someone or something
to
awaken it's sleep. The water was clear enough to
see the rocks on the bottom of the lake at the end of
the pier.
"This
is weird, but it feels right."
"It's a shack." Nathan declared.
"It's still. It needs someone to wake it up."
That's
when it was decided. This would one day be
home.
Each weekend we had cabin 'visitation rights'. We'd
fish and roast
hot dogs over a bonfire. Without
plumbing, my daughters became acquainted with the
woods. The once quiet woods became
acquainted with my
not-so-quiet daughters.
Finally, the arrangements were made and we were no
longer just visitors
to 'ol yeller'. He belonged to
us.
This weekend we decided to start the long journey of
making him ours. With demolition
plans for next
summer, the idea was to make this shack a home for the
next eight months for Nathan and his daughter
to live
in.
Trip after trip was made in and out of the house
carrying out all relics of this forgotten place. "Burn
pile"
or "Back of truck" we'd bark at the girls as
they repeated the in and out routine. Soon, the house
lay fairly empty.
Only a few memories of days long
forgotten remained; a rocking chair, lanterns, fishing
bobbers and a sign bearing the
name of the previous
owners. Somehow burning a sign that existed for over
50 years seemed cruel.
That's about where
all sentimentality blew out the
window.
It started with Nathan taking some of those wooden
creatures and strategically
placing them at the end of
our driveway. While surrounded by meticulously
decorated driveways, our once barren driveway
was now
home to two ducks. Not just any ducks, two ducks with
wings flapping wildly in the wind. He also added a
friendly
watch gnome. I was sure our neighbors were
thinking the Clampett's were moving in. Tacky would be
too kind.
Someone
along the way thought painting the cabin
would 'dress-up' the weary mustard yellow walls. We
brought all leftover paint
from my house and let the
girls 'have at it'. Have at it they did. Stars, smiley
faces, names and undiscernable blotches
in lime green,
orange, yellow and periwinkle now covered the walls.
Picasso would be envious but I am sure by now that if
the neighbors weren't
leary after seeing the driveway,
the colorful house may give them thought about the
future of the neighborhood.
We
had fun. It was decided that next week each will
get a can of spray paint. It couldn't get any worse.
(Can it?)
We
are waking up our sleepy house. Filling it with the
sound of laughter once again. Filling it with new
memories.
Next summer it will be the lakes turn to
awaken as children jump and play and fish off the
dock.
But today?
I guess I wouldn't be surprised if we see a
few 'for sale' signs around the neighborhood next
week!
Here's one Meghan wrote for her school paper
No Mailbox, No Worries
xxxx McCarry Lake Road. I am the only person in my family who can recite our address. The rest of the world simply
refers to our humble abode as “The Hippie Shack.” Our Partridge Family-inspired home does give off an aura of
coming from an earlier time. In fact, we’ve yet to put up a mailbox, the reasoning being, according to my dad, that
if there is no mailbox, there is no place for the local lake association to send a complaint.
When we first purchased our home, my dad drove me into the outskirts
of Iron River to introduce me to my future place of residence. As I set eyes on the dark-brown trimmed, squash-yellow building,
my immediate verbal response was, “We are painting this shack.” There was no aspect of question in my mind; this
house was in dire need of an extreme makeover. Of course, the makeover I pictured in my mind was not mirrored in my father’s,
and the result of the paint job to come would in no way resemble my aspirations for the possible re-décor.
The following weekend, six of my stepsiblings, a friend, and I were each given a can of spray
paint and set loose. My brother Noah and I immediately began battling over the coveted hot pink can. After a high-speed chase
around the yard and a brilliantly executed tackle on my part, he gave up and settled for canary yellow instead. My two youngest
sisters, Maggie and Abby, looking adorable in their “play” jeans and oversize t-shirts, managed to get purple
and orange paint all over themselves, regardless of the numerous preventative precautions instilled by us older siblings.
My other two sisters, Lydia and Priscilla, managed to end up with their favorite colors along with me, and the three of us
set up camp on separate sides of the house, Lydia and I intent on covering our entire canvas’ with our names, and Priscilla
focused on an elaborate design centered around a prominent cross. My brother Josh was content to create a large Packer’s
insignia on his little corner of the house, uninvolved in any squabbling for colors. Of course, the main trouble-makers were
Noah and friend Jarad, who ran around the house attempting to leave their mark on every available space, and a few unavailable
spaces, to the annoyance of the remainder of us. At long last, the house was finally covered in eight different colors, and
several different names and designs.
Our family often jests about the malcontent we suppose our elaborately decorated hippie shack
is causing in the neighborhood. On occasion, it has actually been mentioned in casual conversation. However, people have yet
to attempt forcing us to paint over it. Hence our family motto, ‘no mailbox, no worries…no complaints.”
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