Forty-eight years ago, my husband and I honeymooned in a rugged log cabin tucked beside a northern Wisconsin lake. It had log walls, one cozy bedroom, a single bathroom, and a quiet magic that made it feel much bigger.

We eagerly launched the old fishing boat and explored the pristine waters. Overhead, an eagle soared. We followed it to its nest—a massive fortress of sticks perched in a white pine, and wondered if it had young. 

That night, we sat shoulder to shoulder, warming ourselves by the outdoor fieldstone fireplace. We cooked Smokie Links on sticks while loons called across the water, their melodic songs serenading us.

That was the beginning of a tradition.

As the years passed, the cabin became more than a getaway. It became the heart of our family’s story. In winter, we’d rise at 4:00 a.m., bundle up the kids while they were still sleeping, and make the four-hour drive north. By the time we arrived, they were ready to wake up. We’d dash inside just long enough to turn on the old oil space heater before heading into town to have breakfast at our favorite restaurant, Pitt’s Cafe. Besides great food, it offered nostalgia, since my husband’s grandmother had given them the recipe for their famous chicken and dumplings.

With our bellies full, we hurried back to the cabin, now welcoming and toasty, and planned our weekend of sledding, cross-country skiing, and building snow forts.

Summer brought its own set of rituals. My mother-in-law would lead nature walks along deer trails, teaching the grandchildren to pinch off wintergreen leaves and brew them into tea. We marveled at the great blue herons gliding low over the lake, watched mallard hens lead their fuzzy ducklings around lily pads, and once glimpsed a mountain lion slipping silently through the trees.

On the Fourth of July, we lit sparklers in the yard; the kids twirling them in dizzy circles as fireflies blinked in reply. Also thrilling was spotting glowworms in the leaf mulch. It was as special as the newborn fawn who stepped out of the brush and gently licked my hand.

The cabin is catching frogs, cannonballing off the swim raft, ice cream churning by hand, and picking wild blueberries. It’s card games, mosquito bites, reading by the lake, and spring peepers lulling us to sleep. It’s laughter, drying swimsuits on the old clothesline, and the quiet comfort of knowing that year after year, the cabin will be waiting.

This Fourth of July, we’ll gather again—five adults, four grandchildren—and pass the torch of family traditions that have flickered like firelight from the old fieldstone fireplace. The grandkids will arrive eager and inventive. They’ll chase frogs the way their parents once did, sip mint tea brewed by their mother who learned it from her grandmother, and report to me if they spot any ducklings or Gertie the goose. I plan to introduce a new game, similar to Duck, Duck, Goose, but called Drip, Drip, Drop. Email me if you want directions for this “refreshing” game.

The cabin has a few more luxuries now, like a modern heating system, but the magic is still there. Memories echo from the log walls and creaky floor, and they grow richer with every visit. Some places are more than logs and fieldstone. They’re the heart of our history—where family roots grow deep and traditions never grow old.