Saying Goodbye to the Cabin
We’ve come to the end of an era—our family no longer has a cabin. My grandfather first bought the land, intending it to be a retirement spot. He built the original little square cabin, and my dad added onto it later. Like so many families in Minnesota, the cabin became woven into our summers. Here in the land of 10,000 lakes, having a cabin—or at least knowing someone who did—has long been part of our culture. But our cabin has now been sold, and with that comes a flood of memories.
Childhood Memories (The Good and the Challenging)
I’ll be honest—growing up, I didn’t always love the cabin. My hay fever meant I couldn’t go in the water much, and poison ivy kept me out of the woods. I still vividly remember being in fourth grade, hiding a terrible case of poison ivy from my parents because I thought I was dying and didn’t want to worry them. Looking back, it’s a little funny and a little heartbreaking at the same time. So, while others might remember swimming and running through the woods, my childhood cabin days were often spent indoors, reading books, cutting out paper dolls, and listening at night to the adults’ laughter drifting through the thin walls.
Family Life at the Lake
Life at the cabin wasn’t glamorous—we had an outhouse, hauled water from a well, and used ice blocks for refrigeration. My dad loved fishing and working around the place, but my mom seemed to always be cleaning and cooking, which made the cabin feel more like work than rest for her. Still, there were sweet rhythms too. Every summer we stayed two weeks, and the trip to town—where each of us kids got a dollar to spend—was a highlight. My sisters and I would stock up on paper dolls and spend hours playing. And at night, tucked into our tiny room, we’d eavesdrop on the adults talking late into the evening, their stories and laughter floating through the cabin walls.
New Generations, New Memories
When Tim came into my life, he was introduced to the cabin in a rather memorable way—by talking loudly in his sleep the very first night, much to my mom’s amusement. Over the years, the cabin became a place for our own kids to experience summer adventures. They fished off the dock, caught frogs by the spring, learned to steer the little trolling boat, and even tried water skiing behind a motor that could barely keep up. The cabin may not have been fancy, but for our kids, it was magical. Summer storms rattling the roof, lazy days on the porch, and simple meals around the table became memories they still treasure.
Letting Go
By the time the cabin was finally sold, it had been in our family close to 100 years. The truth is, it was falling apart. Floors were giving way, plumbing never quite worked, and none of us were in a position to keep pouring money into repairs. So it’s bittersweet. On one hand, it’s sad to see the cabin go. On the other, we carry the best parts of it with us—the laughter, the card games, the fishing stories, and the memories that shaped us.
Passing the Stories On
As we’ve been reminiscing, I realize that everyone who’s had a cabin has their own stories. Some are funny, some are hard, and some are simply magical. That’s what makes them so rich. I’d love to hear your cabin stories too. Was there a cabin culture where you grew up? Did your family have one, or did you visit friends’? Whether it was in Minnesota, Wisconsin, or somewhere else entirely, these little rustic retreats have left their mark on so many lives. Even though we’ve said goodbye to ours, the memories are stitched into who we are—and that’s something we get to carry forward.
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