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Detroit Lakes (or, more accurately Lake Sallie in Shoreham) was, if not paradise, my “safe haven.”

It was where the same family of ducks nested in the same birch tree every year.

It was where the only lock on the front door was a butter knife wedged in the door jam to keep the wind from blowing it open. The back door had a padlock on it, but it was on the outside.

It was where my sister and I spent more time on and in the lake than indoors.

It was where the lake was smooth as glass on calm days and foamier than a root beer float when it stormed.

It was where we could always find a cold spring in the middle of the lake on even the hottest summer days.

It was where I first saw hail.

It was where I first saw snowdrifts in April.

It was where I’d crawl on top of the boathouse to study the sunsets.

It was where we’d have our own fireworks on the Fourth of July.

It was where Grandma taught us to play Blackjack like a professional.

It was where the Pavilion meant experimenting with the opposite sex every weekend.

It was where, two generations ago, working class families could easily afford to have a vacation home. Grandma and Grandpa were a beautician and a fireman. Husky to the west worked in a gas station and Chetman to the east was a retired railroad man.

It was where the striped red-and-green fabric on the bedroom doors was eventually replaced with wood doors.

It was where we finally got real running water with an electric pump that never quite worked right.

It was where we finally got an indoor bathroom with a toilet and a shower. But we kept the double outhouse for storage.

It was where I learned to love to drink water with lots of minerals in it—the coldest and best tasting water I’ve ever had.

It was where the oven had to be turned to high and opened on cold mornings to warm the place up.

It was where the only phone was at the Wold’s or the store.

It was where Wally’s bait shop was the center of activity and hanging out listening to the old-timers lie about the fish they caught was the best entertainment on a rainy day.

It was where I’d row an old wooden Ole Lind fishing boat for hours on end every day until I was old enough to be allowed to run the motor. Then I’d run that for hours on end every day.

It was where, when we were older, we had the faded tan Silverline ski boat and would ski all day. Every day.

It was where we’d get up before the sun to go fishing with Grandpa and the lake was so clear we could see to the bottom in most places.

It was where my sister caught her first catfish and almost got out of the boat to walk home.

It was where every year Grandpa would have a new idea for getting the boat in and out of the boathouse.

It was where he finally gave in and bought a boatlift.

It was where old Mr. MacDonald would have a new contraption for getting rid of the shore weeds every year. They never worked but they were pinnacles of Rube Goldberg design.

It was where Grandpa would cut a switch off the willow tree and whip my butt once each summer.

It was where Grandma left the roast in the oven and took us to the circus. It didn’t burn the cottage down but there sure was a lot of smoke.

It was where we played Red Rover with cousins.

It was where there were two stores—Lois’ was smaller but had better candy but Ohm’s was larger and had more stuff. Lois’s two sons ran the gas station and eventually turned the store into The Store—a pizza joint.

It was where Friday nights meant juicy burgers and a cake box full of fries and onion rings from Mussie and Jimmie’s (which later became the Shoreham drive-in but was always one of those cheesy resorts with one-room cabins).

It was where Sunday morning meant waking up to the smell of frying bacon all over the shoreline, a screen-door slam, and a walk across hot asphalt on bare feet to Ohm’s Store for buttermilk for pancakes and copies of the Minneapolis Tribune and Fargo Forum.

It was where rainy days meant a dash across the steaming asphalt to Lois’ store for comic books.

It was where the redheaded woodpeckers could be heard most every morning.

It was where the only church I ever enjoyed was. Maybe because the preachers revolved; maybe because it was non-denominational; maybe because it was old and small; maybe because it was casual; maybe because the main text for us kids was Bird Life in Wington.

It’s still where I go in my mind to feel safe, secure, and happy.