The "Up North" Chronicles

A New Essay Series

A “Norm” of Persuasion

In 1972 my parents purchased a small, unfinished cottage in Northern Michigan from a friend from their church. They had not necessarily been in the market for a cottage at the time (my father was a college professor and my mother a stay-at-home mom/homemaker, so money was not overflowing), but they had taken us as a family to the cottages of friends, and they were certainly hoping that one day they would be in a position to have their own. And as any “downstate” Michigander can tell you, having a cottage was not unusual — even for a one-income family like ours.

One Sunday, my dad and Norm were chatting after the morning service and Norm mentioned that he was building a small 2 bedroom cottage on Burt Lake about 30 miles south of “the bridge” (the Mackinaw Bridge; Michiganders know there’s only one “bridge”) but that he wanted to sell it as-is and start over somewhere more remote on Lake Michigan. Norm suggested my parents bring the family up to see the place in October, you know, just to get a taste of the property and the area. No pressure, you know. Just, well, just come and see the place.

Pretty slick, Norm.

October in northern Michigan is, shall we say, gorgeous — with the forests alight with reds, oranges, yellows, and the fragrance of pine, as the evergreens drop some needles in preparation for the dormancy of winter — and it wasn’t long before my folks were strategizing how to transform this from an opportunity into a reality.

It didn’t take much persuasion on Norm’s part, but it did take a small loan from my grandfather as well as the assurances of my uncle Pete that he would help with some (read: MOST) of the needed finishing touches to make the house livable, before it seemed feasible for my parents to pull off the purchase.

But it happened. And in a few weeks, Dad and Mom had bought themselves a half-finished cottage.

I was 4 years old.

A New Norm: A Summer Home

The next summer — the Summer of 1973 — my parents inaugurated an annual practice — pilgrimage — for the family to head “up north” (southern Michigan parlance for getting out of the cities and heading to the woods and waterways of mid-Michigan and north). We decamped to Indian River, about 250 miles and what was at the time a 4.5 hour drive from our home “downstate” in Warren (the speed limit was still 55 at the time) where we began to enjoy life on the lake. Those first years of ownership brought with them many projects to nudge this “shell” of a cottage into becoming something more like a home: installing a wood burning stove as a fireplace, updating the rudimentary kitchen, paneling the exposed insulated walls, updating the bathroom, installing a sheetrock ceiling to cover the exposed battens of insulation, building a deck, closets, etc. Each of these improvements were subtle and understated with an eye — always — to functionality, rather than fashion. They were also invariably completed by Uncle Pete (a polymath of home repairs) with supporting roles going to my dad and brother.

Regardless of what they were or how they got done, the cottage (this was simply how we referred to it, and still do) was not going to be a place for the newest furnishings and trendy home improvements; it was furnished with hand-me-down couches and chairs, we ate on old dishes from my grandmother, old mattresses from our bedrooms, etc. This was not going to be a money-pit for Mom and Dad. This was to be a place that we would relax. Re-create.

By the time I was 7 years old I was spending the entire summer at the cottage, leaving about a week after school got out, and then returning on Labor Day, in time for school to begin the following week (The annual Labor Day commemorative Mackinac Bridge Walk was a signal that it was about time to go “home” to our regular lives). Since I was the youngest, I got the most time in Indian River, along with my mother. My brother and sister (nearly 8 and 11 years older than I am) certainly had significant time up north, but there time was increasingly mitigated by part-time jobs, sports, plans with friends, church camps, and ultimately college. So, Karen and EJ and Dad would travel back and forth as their schedules permitted, while my mother and I lived at the cottage in Indian River for the summer. Every summer. The locals would call the tourists who descended on the region “fudgies” (a reference to the common tourist purchase of the homemade fudge at the many fudge and candy shops in the region) but we considered ourselves “seasonal locals,” certainly not tourists or (yuck), fudgies. No we were library card carrying, boat-owning, grass (or weed) cutting, first-name-basis-with-business-owner speaking, local grocering, LOCALS. I wasn’t visiting. I was living.

In Warren — metropolitan Detroit — where I spent the other 10 months of the year, I felt safe (for the most part) but there were clear boundaries for me, set by my parents. Places to avoid because of traffic, terrain, or — when I was a little kid — teenagers. But in Indian River, there were no boundaries. Just possibilities. Indian River is where I learned to swim. To ride a bike. To water ski. To canoe. Indian River is where I could get on my bike at 8:00 AM and show back up at the house at Noon with no questions or cause for concern for my mother. Where I felt safe to go wherever I wanted to go. And since it was truly our second home it required no acclimation period. When we pulled in that driveway, we were home.

In the summer 1986 I started a job at Wayne State University in Detroit, which effectively ended my long summers at the cottage. I was now using the place more as a working adult would: long weekends, and the occasional one or two week-long stint. In time, marriage, parenting, working full time, and other burdens of adulthood reduced my time at the cottage significantly – usually to a 2 week vacation in summer, and maybe an occasional long weekend in fall or winter. There was no real regret in this regard. These changes were natural changes that were part of the excitement of getting older and building a life on my own terms. And I got to relive some of my own childhood joys as I watched my sons soak in the magic of even a couple of weeks of a northern Michigan summer. Indeed, my children learned to love the cottage as I did. It’s where they learned to ride their bikes. It’s where they were able to adventure in the waters of Lake Michigan. It’s where they learned to drive a boat. Kayak. It’s where they got to spend time extended time with grandparents. Where they would play countless (and expensive) rounds of mini-golf. But just like I did — indeed, like we all do — Noah and Nate have grown up and started their own adult lives. Now they look for the long weekend or week-long vacation opportunities to enjoy our family’s second home.

And similarly, these life and family changes of the past few years have ushered in a new part of my own life as well.

Normalizing a New Kind of Privilege

After my father passed away in 2018 (mom preceded him in 2011), my sister — the first born — was adamant that we navigate the co-ownership of the cottage with deep care and thoughtfulness. Too many families plunge into conflict and fissure as a result of an inherited property, and we were united in our commitment to honor my parents and their legacy by not only protecting our shared property, but also protecting our close sibling relationships. The property was not worth millions in money, but it was invaluable to us in other ways. So, at Karen’s urging we each bought a copy of Saving the Family Cottage by Ann O’Connell and Timothy Borchers and set about this new season of our lives.

It is a privilege to own a second home — even one that is shared with others. A distinct privilege of generational wealth. I remind myself of this every time I walk the carpet of pine needles on our property, or sit by an evening campfire looking over the lake. But just as with any home ownership, there is the privilege of upkeep. Taxes to pay, special assessments to accommodate, roofs to repair, windows and seawalls to replace, trees to trim. But those, too, are a part of what makes the cottage special. Not just the joy of being there, but the privileged responsibility of taking care of it. Stewarding it.

That’s what Dad would have wanted.

Now, apart from allotting some of our finances to the care and upkeep of the cottage, my wife and I have been in the privileged position of being able able to create new personal rhythms for ourselves there. Now, instead of spending the full summer as I did in my childhood and youth, my wife and I usually spend about 4 weeks in the summer at the cottage, navigated along with my sister and brother and their schedules, and additional weeks and weekends over the course of the autumn and winter. In all, I count our time at about 8 weeks over the course of a year. Not bad, I know.

Chronicling a Place and Its People: A Line+Leaf series

I am writing this from the cottage. It’s a dark and rainy morning. Storms blowing in across the lake. Lightning in the distance. The breeze is cool. And in a few hours the sun will emerge as it always does and everything will change. This is my 53rd summer here. I’ve been thinking about all that has gone into making this place so special. So, over the course of the next few weeks I’ll be publishing a series of essays in Line+Leaf chronicling the people and places that make “up north” such a meaningful place for me, and maybe it’ll spark some memories of special people and places in your own life’s experienced. I certainly hope it does.

Stay tuned (and share with friends)!