Falling

Every autumn when I was growing up, my family took a trip up north to Lake Superior and Bayfield. Not just my immediate family, but my aunt, uncle, grandparents, and assorted stuffed animals. We'd pile into the van at 4:00 in the morning, intent on getting a start on the day. I'd clamber into the back seat, kick off my shoes, and huddle under a pile of blankets (all cozy-like). I'd stare out at the falling moon while Mom played "Winter Solstice" CDs over the speakers — I always wanted to stay awake for the moon and the music, but both eventually lulled me to sleep. I'd wake up a few hours later upon our van's stopping for breakfast — eggs, sausage, french toast — at the Country Kitchen. My brother and I would even get hot chocolate to drink, complete with whipped cream topping; it was then we knew we really were on vacation.

Once stuffed and after a trip to the bathroom and snagging a peppermint or two, we were back on the road. Mom would play some more pick-me-up type of tunes: "The Beatles 1," for instance, or maybe some "Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat." As I got older, this was the time, I told myself, I would get some homework done — and as I got even older, it was the time I put on my headphones and disc-man to listen to the Goo Goo Dolls or "Wonderwall." The mid-morning went on forever, the passengers dozing in and out of sleep until we reached Ashland and our next foodie pit-stop: Sandy's.

Sandy's was a large log cabin, with rustic carved statues of Paul Bunyan-types, bears, and fish. I always ordered soup and I loved the strange woodsy smell of the bathroom, surely from some scented air freshener. Out back, Sandy's had a big wooden mural — the kind with the faces cut out so kids could poke their noggins through. After lunch, my grandpa always made us venture back to the mural and, video recorder in tow, filmed my brother and I taking on each of the backwoods personas — the Paul Bunyan-type (again), some sort of stocking-hat-wearing fisherman, and a bear sitting up on its hindquarters. When we'd completed this ritual, it was time again to climb back in the van (which now seemed more stuffy than cozy) and trek the last half-hour to Bayfield.


I remember the van would stop at the Visitor's Center or some such place — Mom had to pick up the key to the condo we had rented. Waiting for her to get that key always seemed to take ages, especially when the condo was within sight. But she'd finally get back in the driver's seat and take us the rest of the way — we'd unload the mountains of luggage and climb the flight of hallway steps all the way to the top landing (a whole three floors). Once inside, it felt Home. The decor was all shades of blues, whites, and tans — and overwhelmingly nautical. It was unlike anything we had in Milwaukee, and is unlike anything I would ever want for my own house, but here, in Bayfield, it worked. The striped couch stretched on for miles and was as comfy as sitting on pillows. The ceilings in the living room: vaulted, and a bedroom loft looked out over both the living room, kitchen, and dining area.

My brother and I would run upstairs to the attic room, with its peaked wooden ceilings, little windows, and mattress-like couches for us to sleep on; our own little hideaway. My aunt and uncle would take the loft bedroom, but when they weren't occupying it, my brother and I would sneak in and peer over the loft into the great room below. From above, we could see what Uncle Bob was watching on TV and what Aunt Diane was cooking in the kitchen. We could see Grandma seated on the porch, talking to Mom as they both looked out over the lake, and Papa with his video camera, capturing every moment.


My dad couldn't always come Up North with us — his job didn't allow the time away. But some years, he would surprise us. We would always leave on a Wednesday, and I remember one Friday morning in Bayfield, he was there for breakfast. My mom was so happy; my brother and I were ecstatic. Dad is always good to have around when you're walking The Path through the woods, finding walking sticks, collecting fallen leaves, and prodding at path-side tree frogs. Mom, on the other hand, was good for shopping. Bayfield is a tiny place, but we never tired of bumming around the small-town shops. There was the Yuletide — a shop dedicated to Christmas (and the ornaments were adorably tacky) — and the Unicorn that sold artsy things, greeting cards, and woolen hats. There was the shop with all the jams and jellies (and samples galore!), the shop with stuffed animals and potpourri, and the shop that was entirely Scandinavian from their doo-dads, to their picture books, to their molasses cookies.

After a day in the woods or a day in town, we'd come back to the condo to find Aunt Diane making beef-wrapped-bacon, mashed potatoes, gravy, and homemade applesauce. My mom would put her Christmas music on in the kitchen as she helped my aunt finish the day's dinner. It was warm and cozy, like the van at 4 A.M., and smelled of cinnamon. For dessert, there was always pie or cake, or maybe smores roasted over the stove. Later at night, we might take a walk — and one time, we actually saw the Aurora Borealis . It was like the Emerald City, glinting just over the horizon. And later at night, after everyone was asleep, Aunt Diane would stay awake, sitting out on the porch overlooking Lake Superior, and just take in the stillness. And the next day? She'd be up at dawn to once again take in the still. But Bayfield was often still, and we liked it that way.


When we weren't walking in the woods or the shops, we'd drive to a cemetery just outside of town. Some of the tombstones dated back to the civil war, and Uncle Bob, being a Civil War buff, was immensely fascinated by it all. There's something romantic about a cemetery in the fall, fire-red trees all around. And after the cemetery, we'd walk to The Bridge that overlooked a lovely ravine, all golden in the dappled sunlight. My brother and I would climb on the rocks to Mom's shouts of "be careful!" — we always were. And all the while, Uncle Bob would tell us tales of ghosts, fairies, UFOs, and how the munchkins caused all sorts of mischief on the set of "The Wizard of OZ." (Uncle Bob was more than just a Civil War buff.) Eventually, we'd head back to the condo for egg salad sandwiches — though one time, our lunch was postponed due to a so-friendly yellow lab who followed us home. Never fear, his owner wasn't far behind — like I said, Bayfield is a tiny place.

A tiny place, but one we were always sad to leave the following Sunday. We didn't pile back into the van at 4:00 in the morning — we stayed for breakfast, in no hurry to leave this beautiful autumn oasis behind. It still makes me sad to think about waving goodbye to the lake, the condo, the Visitor's Center, the Yuletide, The Bridge, and another family vacation — but it was up, over the hill, and away. Away back home. There's nothing so cozy about a van that's taking you away from such a lovely place, but we could always say, "See you next year!" as we passed Bayfield's city limits into Ashland. But now I'm grown — I haven't seen Bayfield in years. Not since just after Grandma passed away and Papa was too old to capture everything on film. Just memories of fall pretty — that's all I've got. Maybe some day I'll make it back to Bayfield, though I might have to do the driving instead of the back-seat-huddling. It's amazing to me how vivid a place can be, even when you've been gone from it for so long. The smells, the sights, the sounds of Bayfield are so real to me at this time of year — I can't help but smile and thank those days for making me love autumn and all its wonders.