It’s 8:30 p.m. on a Friday. We’ve been driving for a few hours now and I just caught my first glimpse of the lake. We’re almost there.
We drive over a few rolling hills and turn left onto a little gravel road near a farm. We drive slowly past a handful of cabins and park by the red one. It’s old and worn, but it’s perfectly nestled on one of the best beaches on Lake Lida.
I’m 11 years old and my younger brothers and I haven’t spent much time here before. But we will. We’ll spend some of our favorite days here.
I grab my bag and bring it inside the cabin. The distinct “lake cabin“ smell hits me as soon as I walk inside. There’s a mint green velvet-looking couch over there against the wood-paneled wall and a black leather recliner in the corner. I sit on one of the rolling chairs in the main room, and I feel the barely noticeable slant of the hard tile floor as my chair rolls toward the lower level bedroom. I catch myself before I roll too far away, and make my way into the kitchen to grab one of the many treats we brought along. I’m just about to reach for a cookie when I hear someone shouting as they hurry outside.
“Quick, we don’t want to miss the sunset!”
I grab a sweatshirt and walk outside through the screen door. There it is. The lake is beautifully still and calm. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the sun is setting against the deep blue water. It’s the most incredible sunset I’ve ever seen. But I don’t realize how many sunsets I’ll witness here.
For the next 14 summers, these sunsets from San Dee Cove Beach will just keep getting better.
. . .
Lake Lida is the place of my happiest summer memories. It’s where I celebrated many of my birthdays around July 8th each year — complete with a Dairy Queen ice cream cake (always the piece with the most chocolate) and a weekend full of swimming, wakeboarding and tubing behind the boat.
It’s the place where I spent almost every weekend of every summer for more than a dozen years.
Every Friday we’d pack up the car and drive two hours to the Lake Lida. And every Sunday we pack it all up and return home. We were only there on the weekends, but those weekends were a staple in my childhood. I always knew we were going. And I always knew we’d have fun.
There’s a lake culture up here in the North. Come Friday, roads are jammed with cars heading up to the cabin. Everyone is going to “The Lake.” Not the same lake — but the same sort of place. Everyone’s lake is “The Lake” and I think that’s what makes this culture so special. So many people have this place where they can escape and bask in the beauty of Minnesota summers.
Maybe it’s the feeling of warm sunshine on your skin as you lay on the dock after a long, cold winter. Or the way everyone waves as they pass by on a boat or by foot. Or those evening bonfires under a starry night sky.
It’s a feeling. The only measure of time is the sun moving in the sky. And the only worry you have is not having enough daylight before it’s time to go inside.
The Lake is a feeling and a place I’ve come to know very well.
. . .
My great grandpa bought the plot of land on Lake Lida in 1945 — the year my grandma was born. He poured a foundation and moved in a garage from another property to turn it into a home. The foundation allowed for a small kitchen on one side of the house. He later added an addition to the other side, which started as a boat storage area and eventually became a second bedroom — the “lower level.”
There was no running water. No electricity.
Slowly but surely, modern amenities were added to the cabin. By the 70s, it had running water, electricity and even a phone line.
Despite its tight quarters, we always managed to cram as many people as possible into that two-bedroom cabin on Lake Lida. And we always had a blast. No matter how many people stayed for the weekend or even for just the day, all were welcome. We never counted beds when a few more cousins would ask to stay the night and catch a ride back home the next day. There was always room. Even if it was just another air mattress right in the middle of the living room floor.
. . .
It’s 11:30 p.m. on a Friday. Everyone has drifted off to sleep, but I’m still awake.
I’m laying there on the couch when I think I see something flying across the living room. Is that a bird? I sit up and look around to see what it was.
There it goes again.
My 12-year-old self is scared of whatever it might be, so I go and wake my parents. They say there’s nothing to worry about. It’s probably just a bug flying around.
My mom follows me back out to the living room and she stops in her tracks to turn on the lights. There it is.
A bat.
My two younger brothers are awakened by the light, followed by two of my cousins, and then my friend we brought along for the weekend.
By now it’s about midnight, and my parents decide the eight of us can probably all fit into the main bedroom for the night and we’ll deal with the bat in the morning. We manage to bring a few air mattresses into the room, and the youngest ones sleep right on the floor. It’s not the most comfortable setup, but I’m relieved to finally be able to get some rest.
Just as we all finally settle down, a second bat flies out of the bedroom closet. That’s it. I’m a bit terrified of how many more bats might be lurking in the dark, and I follow everyone outside to devise a plan.
It’s 1 a.m. and the eight of us decide to pile into the minivan and we set off to find some hotel rooms. I’m squished in the back seat of the van, and I look up to see my youngest cousin and brother just sleeping right on the floor again. How do they have this ability to just sleep anywhere? We drive 15 minutes over to Pelican Rapids only to find out there are no hotel rooms left in town. On to Detroit Lakes.
We all fit into two hotel rooms, and I finally drift off to sleep.
The next morning is a blur. We call the “Bat Man” to deal with the problem, and we spend the rest of the day just like we would any other day at The Lake.
. . .
It seemed like we were always working on a project at the cabin. Maybe that’s just how my family is, but there was always a window to fix. An old tree to trim. A shed to be cleaned. A new gadget for the boat lift to be installed. We were always doing something.
I’m not sure any of us could sit there and stare at the water for too long.
My grandma, my mom and I would sometimes visit some cute little shops in Pelican Rapids or Vergas and have the best time. And when we got back to the cabin, our organizing genes took over and we’d have to find something to do.
At one point someone even made a potato gun. We spent an afternoon laughing hysterically at the dozens of russet potatoes flying hundreds of yards into the lake. Never a dull moment.
Another time, we had the idea to get an outdoor projector screen so we could watch movies outside. It was a great idea, and I can clearly remember one of those movie nights. We watched Groundhog Day. It was toward the end of summer in late August, so the evenings cooled down quite a bit. You bet everyone along the beach could hear us crazy folks watching Groundhog Day outside in the cold.
. . .
It’s 7 a.m. on a Saturday. I wake to the distinct sound of the kitchen cupboards opening and closing — probably one of my cousins looking for some breakfast. It’s still early, but I’m awake now and look around to see who else is stirring.
My 13-year-old self is accustomed to sleeping in on the weekends. But it seems that doesn’t always apply at The Lake, especially when I’m sleeping on one of the living room futons.
The smell of burnt cinnamon toast is wafting through the air. That old toaster in the kitchen sure works well — but if you take your eye off of it for one second, you’re almost certainly always left with burnt toast. I don’t mind the smell. It reminds me of summer.
My grandparents are already awake and reading the newspaper in the kitchen. I hear them mention it’s time to head to Dunvilla for some breakfast. I decide I’ve had enough sleep and get up to join the group that’s driving the 20 minutes over to the Cornfield Cafe.
. . .
Members of the Thompson Clan are somewhat regulars at the Cornfield Cafe. When I was younger, the trip was reserved for the select few that were up early enough at the moment my grandparents said they were going.
But over the years, it turned into an event we all looked forward to, and Grandma and Grandpa made a point to ask everyone before leaving. We’d pile into two or three cars and get a table for the dozen of us or the five of us — whoever was there. The entire group didn’t always fit at the same table, of course, but Grandpa and some of the cousins would throw paper airplanes across the restaurant at each other. I’m sure everyone stared at us — but boy, did we sure have fun.
The waitress would come to our table and she’d already know Grandpa’s order: a double order of cinnamon toast on white bread.
After breakfast, we’d wander around the hardware store connected to the restaurant. We never really needed anything. But somehow, we would always head back to the cabin with a newspaper, a bundle of firewood and and some gadget we never needed but bought anyway because it looked fun.
. . .
It’s 2 p.m. on a Saturday. It’s a usual lake day, and everyone is doing their own thing — playing in the water, chasing minnows or playing cards. I jump on the jetski with my dad to go for a ride around the lake.
We ride past beautiful homes, and I point out my favorite house just down the beach. It’s a big, white cabin with beautiful floor to ceiling windows. We drive the jetski out to the island in the middle of the lake and park it on the beach. The island is deserted, and usually there’s only one other boat parked on the shore. We get off the jetski and head toward the rope swing that someone put there a summer or two ago. I jump on and my dad gives me a push. I feel like I’m swinging so high in the air, but for a young kid, I’m sure everything looks that way.
When I’m high enough in the air, I jump off and splash into the water — laughing and thinking how much I love visiting this little island on Lake Lida.
. . .
After a few years of rolling the giant inner tubes and gear to the upper shed at the end of every weekend, we decided there should be a smaller, lower shed to house the many floaties and items we used on the water.
With that many people, you can imagine these things accumulated over the years.
One of the most iconic tubes was the Lilypad. It wasn’t just any old tube you pull behind the boat. It was flat, bright green and could hold as many as four people. It was also curiously aerodynamic. We’d ride on it behind the boat, and suddenly we’d fly in the air as high as the tow rope would allow. A few of us would sometimes even make it back down to the water without falling off the tube. It was a sight to behold, and the day it broke was a very sad day.
But there was always something else. We got a wakeboard when I was a teenager and I absolutely loved it. The early morning before everyone was awake, and the evening just after everyone had gone in — those were the two most perfect times to wakeboard. I looked forward to those times every day we were at the lake.
Grandma and Grandpa loved their matching “hot green” jetskis. A lake weekend wasn’t complete without a tour around the lake.
With dozens of cousins, there was always some activity going on. We’d make up the silliest games and we laughed until we cried. There was one game we called “Distraction.” I don’t remember much about it, other than we probably looked ridiculous. We’d distract each other with pool noodles and beach balls while trying to get from one side of the lawn to the other.
One year we decided we needed tetherball. I can still hear my youngest brother’s continuous hysterical, high-pitched laughter as he faced off against an opponent in the lawn. We never knew if he was winning or losing.
. . .
The cold and rainy days at the lake were just as much fun as the sunny ones.
Sometimes, when we were younger, we’d put on our life jackets and go bobbing in the white-capped waves that rolled toward the shore. It was fun for about 15 minutes, but then we were all ready to come inside and warm up.
We’d all be crammed into the cabin together. Some of us would gather around the table in the middle of the room to play a game of cards or Chinese checkers. “Gilligan’s Island” would play on the TV in the background while everyone munched on Dots Pretzels and popcorn.
We’d play games and tell stories. And before we knew it, it’d be 9 p.m. — prompting some Billy Joel lyrics from someone at the table.
“It’s niiiiine o’clock on a Saturday…”
“The regular crowd shuffles in…”
Then the person sitting next to Grandpa would chime in:
“There’s an old man sitting next to meee!”
And we’d all have a good laugh.
Sometimes the power would go out, and we’d just sit there in the dark watching the lightning and listening to the rolling thunder. The best storms were the ones right before sunset. The strong winds and pouring rain would hit us — and then just as the sun was setting, it would all stop. We’d walk outside and see the most brilliant colors I’ve ever seen. It was as if the storm put a filter on the sunset, and the brightest oranges and most vibrant yellow colors painted the sky.
. . .
It’s 10 p.m. on a Saturday. We’re all sitting around a bonfire by the water and enjoying each other’s company. It’s the middle of summer and we have some fireworks left over from the Fourth of July. We light off a few, and I look across the lake to see if others have the same idea.
I can hear others chatting around bonfires up and down the beach. The best conversations are had around a campfire, and we talk for hours as we make s’mores. Sometimes there’s some good music playing on the XM radio in the background. The night is getting darker, and we’re all listening for loons in the distance. One by one, others decide it’s time for bed and head inside the cabin. The mosquitos are starting to come out, but I’m not too bothered by them. I pull up my sweatshirt hood and enjoy this perfect summer evening. Up in the sky, the stars are bright and I lean back a little further in my chair to take it all in.
My dad asks if anyone wants to go on a stargazing boat ride. I join him, along with maybe one or two others. We grab a few extra towels to keep us warm and quietly ride to a spot in the middle of the lake. We shut off the boat motor and we all look up at the sky as the waves slowly wash up against the boat.
I look up and I’m overwhelmed by the number of stars visible tonight. There’s the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper. In the southern part of the sky, I see a cluster of stars with a long handle with three prongs. I name it “rake.”
We spend maybe an hour learning about stars and constellations. My 16-year-old mind is intrigued by the mystery of space, and I love learning about the night sky. The stars are even more beautiful when you’re on a boat in the middle of the lake in the heart of summer.
. . .
Morning walks were always a good start to the day.
Just down San Dee Cove, there’s a path that stretches into the woods, and it was the perfect place to escape for some fresh air. Neighbors would always be out and about to offer a friendly hello.
I’d walk down the narrow gravel road with a friend or a cousin and maybe a cup of coffee in a real mug. My flip flops kicked up little bits of dirt onto my shorts, but I never cared. At The Lake, you never really cared — but in the best way.
Summertime at The Lake was my absolute favorite feeling in the world. I could jump in the lake on a hot afternoon and let my hair air dry into imperfect curls. There was no need to pause for a jacket as I stepped outside. The day could be as relaxing or as exciting as I wanted it to be.
But maybe what I liked most was the company. With such a small space, we were all forced to spend time with each other (whether we liked it or not) and it always made for great memories.
It was common to be sitting on the beach, and then hear some sounds coming from behind the cabin.
“I hear car doors!” someone would say.
Sometimes we knew more people were coming, and sometimes it was a total surprise. And every time, we were so happy to see whoever it was.
. . .
It’s 9 a.m. on a Sunday. My grandpa asks if anyone wants to go golfing with him, and my two brothers, plus four other cousins, volunteer to go with. That’s seven. They need one more to even up the golf carts, so I agree to go with. We listen to a Queen CD on repeat on the short drive over to Lida Greens.
I’m not a golfer by any means, but I figure a 20-year-old should probably learn how to golf. Somehow, I figure it out and get better with each swing.
It’s always a show. It’s much too big of a group, but we don’t care. We all golf together and do our best not to hit a passing car with a wild swing. A lot of laughs. A lot of lost golf balls. And now it’s time for pizza.
. . .
There are two lunch options at the lake: hamburgers or pizza. Of course, there’s always an abundant supply of chips, some sort of fruit and an insane amount of snacks. And some cake because it was always around someone’s birthday. We always found some reason to celebrate.
Of course, from time to time we’d get bored of lake food. But every time that happened, we’d end up at the The Pickle Factory for a burger, or Zorbaz for some pizza. Then we’d bring home the leftovers, and the cycle would continue.
It was always hamburgers or pizza. For 14 summers.
We were much too busy to spend a lot of time cooking, and that was just fine. Lake time was too precious to waste on elaborate meals.
. . .
It’s 3 p.m. on a Sunday. The end of the weekend is getting closer now, and we’re starting to pack up our things. A few of my cousins are still here, and we all agree to go jump in the lake one last time before we go. We’re swimming and jumping off the big inner tube and having a blast. It’s my 25th birthday today, but I feel like I’m 11 again — swimming with my cousins and playing in the water.
I stop for just a moment and think back on those days when we were all a little younger. I’ve spent more than half the summers of my life here. My younger cousins are still splashing me with water as they always do. I look up at the cabin and see my mom and grandparents sitting on lawn chairs by the shore. The cabin behind them is painted brown now instead of red. The picnic tables by the beach are well-worn in and have seen their fair share of sunset card games.
We all get out of the water and dry off with towels. It’s time to put our things in the car. I walk back out to the lake one last time like I always do, and notice the two maples trees I helped plant 10 years ago aren’t so small anymore. They’re still ages behind the other trees around them, but they’re growing stronger and stronger each summer. The one closest to the lake is stretching its branches out toward the water, and a few summers ago we tethered a rope between the tree and the ground to help it grow straighter. I don’t blame it. I’d always want to be closer to The Lake, too.
“See ya later, lake,” I whisper before I turn around to leave.
It’s time to go.
And we close the cabin door on another summer of memories in my favorite place.
