There’s just enough summer left for one more Lessons from my Father vacation story. This tale of vacation woe is packed with more catastrophe than a person can bear at one sitting. So this post contains the first half of the tale. Come back in about a month for the rest of the story.

Good, Cheap Fun

For indeed when we were with you,
we kept telling you in advance that we were going to suffer affliction;
and so it came to pass, as you know.
I Thessalonians 3: 4

“Head ‘em up, move ‘em out,” Uncle Jim crowed the words as the Stratton/Hoey party of ten crowded into two vehicles, ready to hit the road again. We were anticipating a weekend of pure enjoyment, two days of carefree existence, forty-eight hours of good, cheap fun. In fact, this adventure was cheaper than cheap. It was free.

An older couple in our church had told Aunt Donna about their lakeside cabin north of Willmar, Minnesota. They told her our families could use the cabin any weekend in the summer when they were not there.

“Dorothy, it’s free.” I could hear Donna’s excited voice in the kitchen. “Free! It’s a two-story cabin by a lake, with a private dock, and a boathouse stocked and ready for our use.”

“Donna, it sounds too good to be true. They don’t want us to pay anything?” Mom, a wise skeptic, knew there was no such thing as a free lunch.

“That’s what she said, Dorothy, absolutely free. They love to loan out their cabin to young families. Why they even gave me a guide book they’ve written up, pointing out sites of interest on the drive up.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“I’m sure. Grab your calendar. ”

Our weekend was scheduled and off we went, four adults and six active children ranging in age from three to twelve. We were ready for easy livin’, ready to catch our dinner in the well-stocked Lobster Lake, ready to dip those Minnesota walleye and northern pike in egg, roll ‘em in the cornmeal we’d brought along, ready to fry ‘em in the bacon grease stowed in the cooler which was packed in the trunk alongside our fishin’ gear, our swimming suits, and the picnic baskets. This weekend would be the stuff of memory, of legend, and it was free.

Jim drove the vehicle ahead of us while Dad kept him entertained. Neither made any effort to corral the three feisty children in the backseat. My mother drove our tan Plymouth at a safe distance behind the men’s car, my two traveling companions prospering under my loving and bossy care.

Eagerly, Donna read excerpts from the handwritten guide book while Dorothy steered us down the road. “As you travel north of La Verne, Minnesota, on Highway 75, keep looking west. You will see the Blue Mound Inn, a restaurant just recently established and quickly gaining a reputation as one of the area’s finest eateries.”

I swallowed my saliva as I looked out the window. Our car zoomed by the establishment; my hopes of a chance to sample the cuisine predictably dashed.

Anticipation of free lodging and food propelled our parents down the road that hot June day, and the detailed directions in the guide book led us from the state highway to a black-topped county road to a gravel road to a rusty mailbox guarding an overgrown and winding lane. The lane, rutted and narrow, led to a mangy grove, in the middle of which stood a derelict frame farmhouse, which at one time might have been painted white.

“According to the guide book, this has to be the lane. You will find a few cattle gates along the lane. Please shut the gates after you go through,” Donna read from the guide book again. “There’s a cattle gate, that’s for sure.” She peered down the dusky lane. “I guess the cabin must be between the old farmhouse and the lake.”

Both vehicles stopped, balking at the prospect of navigating the lane, which was doing a pretty good imitation of a miniature Grand Canyon. Donna hopped out to confer with Uncle Jim. He agreed, as Dad nodded approval, that indeed, the cabin must be on the far side of the old farmhouse. They assigned Jill, as oldest child, the honor of opening and shutting each gate along the way.

Donna got back into the Plymouth, and Dorothy and Jim drove carefully, avoiding the precarious ruts in the lane. Numerous halts, due to the countless gates, slowed our progress and left Jill cursing her dumb luck as oldest of our young generation. As our cars rounded the farmhouse, we were rewarded with a breath-taking view of the lake. We spied a boathouse and a fragile-looking dock, but the two-story cabin of our imaginations escaped detection. The farmhouse, however, did have two stories, the higher of the two listing a good six inches closer to the lake than did the lower one.

“You don’t suppose…” Mom’s unwelcome thought trailed off.

“No, this couldn’t be it.” Donna finished the thought. “We must have made a wrong turn. I’ll just go try the key before we head down that lane again.”

Donna marched to the screen door and yanked. It wouldn’t budge. She peered closer and spied a hook latching the door securely from the inside. A key was of little use here. Donna executed a neat about face and headed back to explain the situation.

“Lemme take a look,” Jim suggested. He went to the door and rattled the knob. It held firm. He examined the window near the door and worked a small section of its rusty screen loose. He managed to open the splintery window sash, but there was no way his body would fit through the small hole he had created. “Donna, send Julie-bug up here. She’s small enough to crawl through, I think.”

Julie, nearly overcome by the importance of her assignment, straightened her young shoulders, and walked solemnly to fulfill it. Uncle Jim lifted her and squeezed her through the opening, pulling back on the screen as she squirmed her way in. Julie opened the kitchen door and then unhooked the screen, emerging from within victorious. Donna put the key in the lock, sure it wouldn’t fit. Unfortunately, it did. The summer cabin of our dreams suddenly became a nightmare.

Donna walked through the door and, to her credit, did not faint as she surveyed the amenities of our free digs. My mother clung to consciousness also, which was good, as she was still at the wheel, parking the car in the least overgrown patch of lawn she could find. Uncle Jim managed a weak grin as he ran back to his car and pulled it in place beside her. Dad, taken aback by his first view of our palatial accommodations, began laughing so hard he couldn’t gasp out a snappy comment. We young ones, having waited patiently for at least five miles of the approximately 175 mile trip, could be patient no longer. We poured out of the car, falling over one another in our haste, ready to race to the lake.

“You kids be careful,” Mom yelled as she got out of the car. “Come back here for a minute.” Normally, we would have ignored her instructions and headed straight for the water, but the overgrown lawn impeded our progress, and the squadron of Kamikaze mosquitoes guarding the lake drove us back.

“Head for the house,” Jim barked the order, and we obeyed. We flew into the house and slammed the door, slapping at the enemy pilots invading the kitchen.

“I gotta go…bad!” John spit out a few mosquitoes as he spoke. He headed through the house on a whirlwind mission to locate the facilities. Seconds later, he returned to the kitchen with a puzzled and desperate look on his face. “I can’t find the bathroom.”

As he spoke, the door opened. Uncle Jim wheeled Dad in. A formation of fighter mosquitoes accompanied them. “Johny, the bathroom is outside. I spied the outhouse in the grove,” Dad said.

“An outhouse!” Mom exclaimed. “Donna, did you pack toilet paper?”

“No,” Donna’s voice wavered.

“Neither did I.”

As John danced painfully, Jim looked him in the eye. “John, be a man and be the first to test the facilities. Just pray for a Sears catalog. And don’t dawdle. The skeeters will carry you off if you aren’t careful.”

John pushed his way through the door and soldiered bravely through the yard to the outhouse leaning precariously in a shadowy corner of the grove. An honor guard of mosquitoes escorted him to his appointed task.

While John inspected the outbuildings, we girls completed a reconnaissance mission through the interior of the estate. We found a living room and dining room off the kitchen as well as one bedroom on the first floor. The bedroom held an iron bedstead, a greyish water-stained mattress stunningly setting off the set of rusty springs upon which it laid.

We tore up the stairs, oblivious of the wallpaper peeling off the ceilings and walls, dangling just above our little heads. We found three more bedrooms, the decorating motif of each strikingly similar to that of the main floor bedroom, although some mattresses were a tri-colored mix of grey water stains tastefully swirled among yellow urine patches and streaks of dried brown blood. Astute observers that we were, we noticed the musty odor pervading each room, amplified by the stifling temperature on the second floor. We paired up and wrestled open the warped sashes of the double-hung windows in each room, letting the cool, grass-scented evening air rush in. Then we headed down to the kitchen to report what we had discovered.

“Girls, that’s great,” Aunt Donna complimented us. “We’ll bring suitcases and sleeping bags in right after supper. Why don’t you all set the table while Dorothy and I mix up the tuna salad for sandwiches. One of you, grab the fly swatter and keep at the mosquitoes.”

With our expert help, supper was ready in a flash, and we all gathered hungrily at the kitchen table. After a remarkably short grace, punctuated by hands slapping at the dive bombers buzzing around us, we dug in.

“These bugs are getting worse,” exclaimed Donna. “Is the door shut all the way?”

“It sure is.” Jim got up to double check.

“Where in the world are they coming from?” Mom wondered. “Girls, was there a hole in one of the bedroom screens?”

“Nope,” Jill was positive.

“Are you sure, Jill?”

“‘Course I’m sure. I’m no baby.” She was indignant.

“How can you be so sure?” Dad took over the questioning.

Jill sat up very straight, swallowed one last mouthful of sandwich, slapped at the insect imbibing her life blood, then paused for dramatic effect. “I’m sure,” she intoned with great dignity, “cuz there were no screens.”

“No screens,” Mom echoed. She rushed out of the room and up the stairs, followed by Jim and Donna. Above us we heard window sashes banging down. Dad sat in his chair, trying to chew and laugh without spewing masticated tuna fish all over the table. He picked up his napkin and wiped the tears from his eyes.

The other adults returned to the room, clouds of buzzing biters creating an interesting halo effect around their heads.

“That takes care a that.” Jim broke the next bit of news gently. “Kids, the mosquitoes are just too thick out there tonight. We’ll have to hold off on swimmin’ ‘til tomorrow.”

We pleaded with him to no avail. The enemy agents circled outside the walls, and we were condemned to an evening inside our free summer cabin.

Putting a good face on it, Jim reasoned with us. “We’ll go to bed early, get up at the crack of dawn, and be in the boats all mornin’. Now, who’s gonna brave the outdoors and help me bring in the suitcases?” Outnumbered by merciless, winged warriors, we valiantly managed to unpack the cars in record time.

Sleep eluded us that night, trapped, as we were, in a war zone. Enemy agents conducted relentless attacks, engines buzzing overhead unceasingly. At some point in the night, cattle wandered into the yard. Their moos serenaded us, mingling with the aerial drills above us, driving away any hope of sleep. The upstairs bedrooms, with windows tightly shut, retained heat remarkably well. The hordes of fighter jets stirred the stuffy air not at all. We faced a conundrum. Should we throw off the heavy sleeping bags and leave ourselves vulnerable to enemy attack or burrow into the bags and die of overheating? Anxiously, we awaited the crack of dawn.

If you liked what you read, come back on September 15 for Part 2 of Good, Cheap Fun.