Lake Beulah, Wisconsin

A summer on the lake and the quiet rituals of another time.

Every July and August, my mother took my brother, our dog, and me north to my grandmother’s lake cabin. The days seemed to have no edges. I fed peanuts to chipmunks and tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade them to trust me. We fished from morning until dusk, catching bass and bluegill, and learned quickly that if we wanted supper, we had to clean what we caught. My mother hated lake fish, but she believed in the lesson.

There were woods deep enough to disappear into and shuttered summer houses where we invented whole lives for people we had never seen. Later, when we were twelve or thirteen, we were allowed to bring friends. We went out in the boat, tried to water-ski, and felt suddenly much older than we were.

In the middle of the lake was a private island. We landed there whenever we could, certain that being caught would mean real trouble. It probably would not have. But at that age, stepping onto someone else’s island felt like crossing into another world.