My grandmother’s house was incredible. She lived in Superior, Wisconsin, a city that shares the westernmost tip of Lake Superior with Duluth, Minnesota. Back in the days of 55 mph speed limits with my dad behind the wheel, it was a three-hour drive from the Cities for us to get there.
We felt as welcomed and embraced there as we did in our own home. The house was covered with blankets, pillows, and comforters all implausibly soft with age, ready to be used by any number of cousins who’d be staying there and would need a couch or a spot on the floor for sleeping if our parents had claimed all of the beds, which often happened even though the front bedroom upstairs probably could comfortably sleep seven. The bathroom had an amazing claw-foot tub that took forever to fill. The house was warmed by a wood-burning stove in my younger days, which was replaced by a more radiant heater in the later years. There was a small ramp in the floor that led from the kitchen and down into the dining room, that was either the result of some construction plan I never understood or the house settling over time (I was too young to ever find out which it was). It was the only house I’ve ever known that had an actual pantry, which we (meaning my sisters and me, and many of our cousins) only cared about because that’s where the cookies and cereal were kept. Even in the cold of winter -- which, since this is Superior and Duluth we’re talking about, was a serious level of cold -- the house was always just on the edge of being too warm for comfort from all of the people usually filling it.
Gram’s house was just as much a museum of our family as it was her home, with treasure troves of history stashed away in every corner: photo albums, stacks of paperback novels, framed photographs hanging on every wall (each person in the family was represented at least once), my aunt’s paintings, sheet music from decades past, old comic books, board games, sets of poker chips and decks of cards wearing thin from overuse, both in the construction of hundreds of card houses (my cousin Paul created one he named “The Belgian Cheese Factory”) and poker games, both small and epic (Jacks or better, trips to win, anyone?). The only game of Monopoly I’ve ever played to completion was played with my cousins Chris and Kelly. It took over four hours. We had the board spread out on the dining room table, a monstrously heavyweight piece of furniture which felt like it could sit at least thirty people at a time and probably came close to doing just that a few times.
Whether we went up there for a holiday or just a stray weekend visit, it was a better time when the cousins were around. There were always adventures to be had, even if they were little more than walking two blocks to 7-11 for Cherry Coke Slurpees when we were kids or walking to Godfather’s Pizza when we were older, because it was close, the pizza was all right, and they had a Ms. Pac-Man table. We had favorite bowling alleys, favorite movie theaters, favorite record stores, and even favorite restaurants -- we weren’t too picky about those because we were teenagers; thankfully there was a McDonald’s only a short drive away, which saved my cousin John and me during one Christmas dinner when one of our aunts got a little too creative with the recipes and we needed to make a quick run for fries before dessert was served.
Summers were always good for a ride over the singing bridge and out to the beach at Wisconsin point, where we could walk something close to a hundred yards (if I remember right? I was smaller) from the shoreline before the water would even get waist deep. There was snow football in the winter, exploring the train tracks that ran less than a block from the house, and for some of us, role-playing stories from “Hogan’s Heroes,” which was almost too perfect. After all, the house probably predated World War II, and we could always pretend our grandma was a German guard without her even knowing (she was Grandma Schulz, after all).
Whenever we were together for the bigger events and holidays (there are an amazing number of teachers spread out over three generations of the family and there always have been, so we always got together over Christmas break) there were sure to be sing-alongs around the piano. Aunts and uncles and cousins, occasionally getting out guitars or other instruments that had been brought along for accompaniment. I didn’t know most of the songs and wasn’t big on the sing-alongs anyway, so it’s ironic in a way that I have that same piano in my home now. If I get my face close enough, I can still smell the intoxicatingly thick varnish that covered it.
We all spent that early part of our lifetimes creating so many moments there that became monuments of personal history for us. I’m pretty sure we even had the presence of mind inside of those moments to understand and recognize that what we had together, while not always peaceful and idyllic, was unusual and special.
But a house that old couldn’t last forever. The generations shifted, and our headquarters eventually reformed about two hours south in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. One family of cousins had grown up there, and after our uncle passed and our aunt relocated, our cousin Dan bought his childhood home and converted it into a remarkably comfortable and impeccably decorated cabin. We had all put in a lot of time at Turtle Lake growing up, so it was a natural shift. So many years later now it’s almost as much of a Mecca for the family as our grandmother’s house in Superior had been. We’ve spent weekends there when people have come together from five or six different states, as well as three time zones.
The cabin is always there for any of us to visit, but there are a few big draws every year, with none bigger than the Turtle Lake Fair. It’s exactly the tiny county (tri-county, actually) fair you’d expect a small town to have and not remarkable on its own, but it’s been an excuse for us to get together now for well over twenty years. We’ve reached the point where there’s actually an activity schedule, along with a huge cookout on Saturday evening, followed by a night of music in the basement that goes late into the night. There are enough instruments set up down there to stage a small concert -- including the light show -- and we’ve done that for ourselves many times over. What used to be playing show tunes around the piano has evolved into dozens of people taking turns singing and playing with the band. The remarkable thing about the fair weekend is how we can have close to seventy people (I’ve counted before) from four generations together in an average-sized residential yard, and for us there’s absolutely nothing unusual about it.
I know there are a lot of people who have next to no relationship with their extended families, and there are just as many who get along well. It’s different for us, though. I know everybody wants to say that to show just how close their family is, but in our case it really, really is true. And unless you’re ever fortunate enough to get a chance to tag along with one of us for a weekend in Turtle Lake, you’ll just have to take my word for it here.
But if you were lucky enough tag along, I promise you’d be welcomed with open arms.
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