unHooked

Garrison Keillor’s NPR’s program, “A Prairie Home Companion” was and still is one of my absolute favorite things in life, even though I didn’t listen regularly. I’d catch it while riding in the car every so often, long before my iPhone catered to my every listening whim, long before SiriusXM, and podcasts and ebooks.

I didn’t have to listen regularly, because every time I did listen, especially to “The News From Lake Wobegon”, it felt like a letter from home. So not tuning in purposefully was like finding an unexpected postcard in my mailbox from my Dad, rehashing recent events and mostly telling me what I already knew, namely that the greatest beauty is often found in the humblest of hosts, and that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

My own Lake Wobegon (which I have interpreted as a command: Woe! Be GONE!) is in northern Wisconsin and although I am keenly aware that it is a place mostly for the 1%-ers, I am equally aware that there are those of us who do not yearn for the multimillion dollar lake homes or $300,000 pontoon boats sporting twin 500 horsepower engines (nice as those things are), but rather for the rustle of the breeze scented by spring’s bounty, or the welcome shock of cold water just beneath the surface even late into the summer, or the icy glare that winter brings, forcing you to face certain facts, not the least of which are (a) that you really can feel the cold in your bones, and (2) that your time on this rock is finite. If you’re lucky enough to recognize the vast swaths of heaven that creation left as it moved through this part of the universe, you know to what I am referring. If not, then go visit Vilas or Oneida county, find a lake to sit by quietly and see if you can’t spot it, too.

We spent the long Memorial Day weekend on Lake Tomahawk in our slice of heaven which we know as Birch Knoll. Only two or three modern-age families have called it home, although indigenous clans have no doubt been flocking to the area lakes for eons. Not tourists but stewards, faithfully caring for and restoring them for all to admire, like their own Mona Lisa.

At one point in the not too distant past, the place was apparently awash in birch trees. Hence, the title. However, these were savagely striped by the previous owner in order to make way for “improvements.” In 2017, during the inception of Birch Knoll, we planted five fledgling river birch that are now slowing growing up on the knoll, leaves fluttering in the sunshine breaking through the thick oak and pine canopy so graciously providing shelter and acorns that crunch underfoot long into summer, and more pine needles than should be possible for one small acre or so.

As an aside, please note that should anyone ever devise a way to mechanize pine needles into a fastening device of some kind, the world will surely be better place. They stick into and onto almost everything. In fact, I’m relatively sure there are one or two permanently stuck in my pillow, having drifted off too sleep there after a full day of patrolling the rocky embattlements staked up along the shore there, ostensibly, to protect from erosion.

In theory. In reality, “riprap” is obscenely expensive rock wall which requires an annual rebuilding process involving standing in the water for hours on end to retrieve boulders brutally dislodged by months of foot-thick ice sheets, and redepositing them back upon themselves each spring. This is not a task not for the weak of back. Or knee. Or shoulder, or basically, anyone older than about 22, but I digress.

This is The News From The Knoll – Memorial Day Weekend 2026.

I made some mental notes as we moved through the Closing List, a series of tasks the owners (and our best friends) have devised over the years so that each new visitor will find the house tidy and welcoming, a fresh slate waiting to launch some grand new adventure for whomever stays there next, even if – especially if – it’s just us. Again.

Mental notes of note to them follow below.

I am sorry, but even after 9 years of part-time residence, I cannot guarantee the correct (re)placement of the various pans and dishes used during our stay. It’s not that I don’t know where they’re supposed to go, but herding two farel toddlers, one mostly dead and one decidedly not dead dog, two grown children (one of whom you gave birth to), a husband on a mission to find and repair every and anything broken or even slightly askew, and carrying my incredibly beautiful 7 month old granddaughter around everywhere, left my usually hawklike faculties somewhat … diminished. As a result, I am not I certain that the clean sheets and towels have been distributed amongst the guest rooms properly, nor that every loving curated vignette has been repositioned in accordance with the precise magical symmetry that flows from the wand of your heart to arrange things just so.

You are in need of dishwater tabs and gallon size ziplock bags, although admittedly, I did not check all of the seven or eight backup supply areas, as I lost all practical mobility by early Monday morning. I did notice that my son-in-law left you an interesting array of coupons on the bar downstairs; it felt a little like his way of leaving an offering for the gods, so I left them there on the altar. Also, I’m pretty sure I forgot to restock the Kleenex in the little bathroom downstairs, but I can say definitively that your brown sugar and curry supplies have been replenished and we have left ninety-odd 4th of July paper plates for general use. Additionally, because I can never remember whether we have or need dog food, there seems to be a year’s supply in the garage.

Speaking of which: No, I’m sorry I did not back in the Gator; it was one of the only ways to corral and ensure the relative safety of the boys while on land and as state previously, I was tired by the end. I think the pickleball equipment and bags boards have been restored appropriately. I did water the garage plants but did not have time to attend to them any further, nor for that matter, any other outstanding task. It was not that kind of “working weekend”, most of the work being dedicated to preventing the boys from drowning or eating sand, and their brutally precise meal prep requirements. They are bottomless pits of appetite, even though their culinary tastes are severely limited, and I’m more than willing to share the various ways macaroni and cheese and PB & J sandwiches can be ruined simply by being served in the wrong color dish or with (or without) crusts — topics I’m sure were wholly omitted from the syllabus of The Cook’s Atelier.

On the positive side, there have never been two young boys more filled with joy when fishing from your dock or inside the peaceful dim of the boathouse. I accidently caught a rather nice Bass on my second cast and as I do not fish, nor have a license, this was quite the coo. Poor Josh snagged an awesome Pike on the first day which, while preparing to be photographed, flip-flopped right off the dock back into the water, hook and lure still lodged in its mouth. He assured me it would make its way out and not endanger the fish unless it choked to death on the freed apparatus. Not reassuring, but it had to do. JJ was ecstatic when “caught” a sunfish (aided heavily by his father) and even Kayleigh snagged a few catches. Mick caught nothing, perhaps did not even get a chance to try as he was mostly concerned with untangling stray lines or retrieving poles accidently hurled into the water, seemingly a long and flat spot on the learning curve of casting.

The piece de resistance was the giant eagle circling not ten feet off the end of the dock, and swooping down to catch its dinner in its wicked talons. The boys actually squealed with delight! It was only several minutes later that I realized that squealing was actually their version of an eagle cry, piercing and repiercing the evening sky and my ear drums.

The little one does everything the older one does so when JJ reached up to hold my hand on the shore at the end of that day and asked me, “Isn’t the lake so beautiful, Nonnie?”, Caleb jockeyed for my other hand and repeated the question. My joyous heart burst into a thousand glorious shards and I knew, like me, they somehow had come home to a place they’d never been before but would never ever be without again.

So, please do try to overlook the haphazardly stocked larder and the array of undone tasks and know that the generosity of your soul and the sacred spirit of that land will never be taken for granted or ever be forgotten.

And that’s the news from the Knoll, where all the women yield ancient magic, the men are all along for the ride and the children are usually sticky, but mostly above average.