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Click for a larger image.

We enjoyed the walks after dark. The road was different then, the times were different then. It was long before each cottage had the large outdoor lamps that now illuminate the road. Memory tells me the road was in darkness and almost every star in the sky could be counted. One star shone much brighter than the rest, and this one we adopted as our own private wishing star. On this star we shared dreams of our future together. It was a star that promised hope and love.

It was that summer when I came into her life; she was 15 and I was 18. Her fishing poles were in the corner gathering dust. She no longer spent the days with her father, fishing and listening to the wisdom that fathers impart to their daughters when they are alone.

Through the young years, the mature years, and the time in between, the cabin remained our special place. The babies arrived - first Jennifer, then, three years later, Susan, and three years after that, Robin. They thrived and became intelligent young ladies.

Birthdays were celebrated. Broken dolls and pet frogs that went away were buried there, with appropriate ceremony. Later, it was campfires by the water's edge after dark, with teen-age boys from the neighboring village in attendance. Although these years gave us gray hair around temples, we need not have worried. Jennifer eventually married one of a swarm of boys who paid the almost nightly visits. They have both graduated from college and have given me lovely granddaughters.

Friends came early and stayed late, devouring bowl after bowl of freshly popped corn while playing pinochle. It was an exciting time in our lives although none of us had one dollar extra. It really did not matter. Somehow or another, things always worked out and love flourished, all in that space. The cabin became a way of life, a place to escape to sanity in a world out of control.

The 1950s were filled with the grand adventure of living one day at a time. There was no time to consider, less comprehend, what our lives were all about. Working too hard, playing hard, and perhaps not loving enough, we somehow managed to survive, even thrive, on the uncertainties of young marriage. Our small family existed in the blissful ignorance peculiar to the young, and all we hoped was that tomorrow might be as good as today - and it usually was.

In the middle years, the time when we discovered the true meaning of marriage - the caring, the sharing, the compassion between partners and children - we remained attached to our tiny cabin. Our world was complete.

There is a basement in our cabin that we dug with a pick and a shovel from the hard clay soil. After we paneled the walls and carpeted the floor we no longer referred to it as the basement, but rather, the lower room. It was in this room in the summer of 1978, while we were vacationing, that I became certain for the first time that Kay was being literally consumed by an as yet unknown illness.

As I entered the room on that afternoon, she had been crying silently, alone. Much later, she told me that she kept her illness a secret until that day because she wanted to spend one last happy vacation with me. Without stopping to pack, I helped her into the car and drove directly home and to the doctor's office, where he confirmed the awful suspicion I had had since February of that year. She had advanced cancer, and because of its location the doctor said it would be terminal.

First there was an operation, then treatments. Then another operation and more painful radiation treatments. Then more surgery. Each successful operation, each maneuver to evade death, was cause for elation. Although it was short-lived, the attempt to fight the disease was necessary in our lives at that time. After each discharge from the hospital, her main goal was to once more visit the cabin, where so much of our lives was involved. This single obsession played no small part in her return to partial health.

Each summer vacation, and most weekends in between, were spent at this idyllic spot, even after the onset of her illness. Although her activities were limited, she continued to make the trip by lying across the rear seat of the car, which had been converted into a makeshift bed. Many pleasant hours were spent sewing and working jigsaw puzzles (her two favorite pastimes) as she sat in the special cushion I had designed for her. Whatever sadness she might have felt was concealed behind a look of contentment on her face as she kept busy. As she gazed out of the window, down at the water, I could tell she was at peace with herself and with her creator.

Now it was autumn of 1980, and all my desire for green summer's return could not reverse the seasons. It was quite cool that late fall day when Kay and I closed the cabin for the winter. We began to pack the few odds and ends for the trip home. In retrospect, it had been a rather pleasant, if uneventful, summer. But now was the time to look forward. The leaves had changed and fallen, except for the curled, rusty leaves of the oak, which still clung to the branches. They hung like sentinels, watching for the coming of winter's first snow.

As we packed I glanced at her occasionally, enjoying silent communication with her while I mentally went over our closing-up checklist. It was then I noticed she had remained motionless for several minutes as she stood gazing through the window, down at the water. Tears rolled down her cheeks. As I walked over to her, she turned to me, wiping away the tears, and looked directly into my eyes with a gaze that penetrated my soul. In happier times we would sit and stare at each other for the pure comfort and contentment it provided, but this time it was different. Her eyes were riveted to mine and I was oblivious to everything but the sadness in them as they told her story. She had been looking at the sailboat and the canoe, which had been padlocked for the final time that summer.

This would be a final time for her, also. She would not be here at our beloved cabin in the coming spring. She knew it and I knew it - and without speaking, we both cried as we locked the door.

Now it is May, 1982, and time to open the cabin again. There is a strong wind blowing from the south. Rain is forecast, but the blue sky belies the prediction. The combination of wind and warmth most surely is breathing life into a new springtime. Kay is not here this season. She died, peacefully, last July, at age 44, but the bittersweet memories of our life together still remain fresh and gentle. Over there on the daybed lies the unfinished quilt which was to have been a wedding gift. The jigsaw puzzles are stacked, balanced precariously, in the corner, and her bathing suit and sandals are tossed onto the pile with the others, creating a miniature mountain of color.

As I walk onto the porch, I get the distinct impression that something has changed. The trees surrounding the cabin are still. The choir sounds have vanished from the hillside. There is not a ripple on this silver lake. Could her departure have caused the beauty of this special place to leave also? Could it be that she was the reason the cabin was a place where happiness abounded?

As I surveyed this dismal cabin, I contemplated the bleakness of my future. I remembered how Kay always greeted each new day with a smile - especially when she was free from pain. She felt not that she was one day closer to death, but that she had survived another day. I had given her the encouragement to continue and in return had received strength. But since she has left my world I had lost the courage - or is it the desire - to continue on alone. To merely exist is not to live. Life is a precious gift, which should not be wasted by thoughts of what might have been. But the emptiness I am experiencing now allows for no alternatives.

My children have all grown up and gone. Except for an occasional chipmunk running across the ceiling rafters, the cabin is quiet. I am quite alone. This cabin, which once was bursting at the seams with life, has become a place of the lonely heart. The silence is deafening.

Even sunsets have changed. From the porch of the cabin I have been awed by the sunsets of 30 years. It faces directly west, so no sunset has gone unnoticed. Instead of the crimson, then pink, then violet skies after the sun has descended below the treeline on the far side of the lake, there is only grey and black to greet the evening.

The bullfrogs that called from the rushes down by the water's edge are silent, as are the insects of the night, which used to fly into the glow of the porch floodlight. The night is quiet. The absence of love has had a profound effect on the richness of my world.

Here it is, mid-summer already. The springtime of 1982, which was much colder than usual this year, has given way, reluctantly, to the warmth of summer. Right now I have my two beautiful granddaughters, Danielle, 7, and Elizabeth, 3, to keep me company for a few short weeks. They have brought my cabin to life again with their happy sounds. The acrobatics they perform as they climb over, under, and through our rocking chairs is unbelievable. The bed has been turned into a trampoline springing them high into the air, resulting in only minor bumps and scratches. Danielle is every bit a finely sculptured, sensitive little lady. Lizzie, on the other hand, can be described in one word: irrepressible. The world had better change for Lizzie, because she most certainly will never change for it.

At bedtime, it is hugs and kisses, then drinks of water, then the bathroom, then more goodnight kisses. I watch their angel faces as they sleep and find it difficult to believe the happy racket they make when they are awake and playing. I become uneasy, though when I realize that like my own children, they too will grow up too fast, too soon, and go too far away.

While I watch these beautiful babies at play and as they sleep, the shadow of my depression begins to fade. It suddenly occurs to me to write that although what is past is beautiful and should never be forgotten, it is not good to live in the past. The precious memories of what used to be should not interfere with what lies in the future. The time to come is a splendid time, with new opportunities, perhaps new love. The future certainly will provide more golden memories.

Now as I sit on the porch and rock and remember, I gradually become aware of nature's sounds, almost as if someone had slowly turned them on again. Once again the hillside is alive and singing as the lake breeze moves through the branches. I hear the patter, again, of the chipmunk above the ceiling; from the many sounds, I know she is raising her family there.

And I believe that if I took a stroll down the dark lake road tonight, I would be able to count every star in the sky. Perhaps I’ll even find my special wishing star again. It will be another season to remember, here in this place, this cabin full of memories.

Reprinted with permission of the Toledo Blade
From Toledo Magazine – Sunday March 4, 1984

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A few days ago this delightful and very unexpected email arrived in our mailbox prompted by John Sharkey’s A Season of Change. - Michael Sarnacki, June 2007

As Fathers Day approaches (this Sunday)...I'm Googaling around, looking for things of interest in the Jackson area. I was remembering the many Father’s Days we enjoyed at Sweezey Lake while I was growing up. I was amazed to find a Sweezey website!!! And even more amazed to see photos, news...even a logo! But, I ran across the story written by my Dad, and I'm wiping away a few tears...so many memories, a wonderful childhood spent at Sweezey. I am Jennifer (Steffey), John's oldest daughter. The story still told around my birthday is how I was almost BORN at Sweezey Lake...50 something years ago. I love hearing my dad talk about it to this day. I can't begin to tell you what a special place Sweezey is, and I'm guessing that you now own our old cottage. So, I really don't need to tell you how special it is, you already know! It's true. I met my husband one summer at Sweezey. We just celebrated our 34th anniversary.

From the time I can remember until I was in my 30’s, summers were always about Sweezey. I recall bugging my dad to install a furnace so that we could go up there in winter. We actually did go up occasionally to ice skate and sled. But summers were the BEST! And it sounds like you have made some wonderful improvements to the place. I'm laughing at your "lake names"...I'm proud to say I was one of the founding members of the "Sweezey Sweeties"...surely you've heard of us?!...and our legendary exhibitions on water-skis!! Great GREAT times! And I can't tell you how many hours my two girls spent making piles...or "pies" from lake muck :-) I'm sure my sisters and I did the very same thing. Glad to hear the tradition is being carried on!

I remember the Obee clan...they had a HUGE family, although I never actually met any of them, I think my dad and his "cronies" knew all of them. Actually... my Dad, JB Geralds and George used to cruise the lake on a regular basis...they knew everybody and their business. ;-)

It was so sad to hear of Ernie Tibai’s passing. He was a very nice man...he and his wife had a houseful of wonderful kids. I was actually a prom date of their son John...nice family.

I still recall the smell of the wet sand as we would turn into the drive on Friday nights...the sounds of the quiet evenings...maybe hearing a fisherman's small engine puttering in at dusk, or the water quietly lapping against the dock. I remember sitting on the front porch with my Dad...talking about all sorts of things, while my mom and grandmother would be working a jigsaw puzzle together. But, mostly Dad and I would stare out onto the lake, watching the last spark of sunlight as it fell behind the trees.

Sometime we'd get lucky and get WJR to come in, just enough to hear a little music between the crackle of the airwaves. Friday nights and Saturday mornings were always filled with anticipation...being the first up and onto the water in our canoe...or hoping that the cousins would be coming up for the weekend. And as I got older, there were always the gatherings of all my friends from "our side of the lake". The plans being made, who's boat would pull us water skiing, what were the dinner times for each family...we didn't want to separate for more than just a quick bite to eat and then it was back to the water!

I remember one Saturday a.m., waking to hear a rumbling sound as a bull dozer was clearing away trees from the lot next door. That was always our "private" play area and we were pretty annoyed that changes were being made. Annoyed until we met the families and all their kids...new playmates!!! I can't tell you how wonderful it was to see the photo of Jack Mack and his grandkids. I think I had my first "crush" on his oldest son, Bill...way back when. And the photo of Jimmy...I remember when he was just a sandy-haired little boy...always running after the girls, trying to fit in or maybe just causing trouble for us. Either way, they are great memories and I'm happy to see that they are all still coming to Sweezey. And if you wouldn't mind...the next time you see the Mack’s, tell them I said "Hello"!
I'll tell you, we six kids were a "pack of wild Indians", according to my grandmother...we were always running through the woods, chasing frogs, catching fire flies, and swimming from morning till dusk. And when the kids from the Cave Inn were up.... I doubt any of our parents saw us for more than ten minutes out of the entire day.

I also remember going to the association board meetings with my grandmother. The Hobo dinners were actually first held on the property owned by Harry and Mary Stone. It was a HUGE time...lots of games, prizes and food! I can't remember when It was moved to Strickler park, we always had a good time. I ran across a picture not too long ago of my daughter (Danielle, she couldn't have been more than 3) standing on the front of our pontoon boat with my mother. Danielle was dressed (thanks to my mom) as "Miss Liberty"...in honor of July 4th...we might have actually taken a prize that year in the float contest!!

I couldn't have been much older than 7 or 8 when I remember this OLD man would come by the cottage once a year to visit with my grandmother. He would sit on the front porch and talk on for what seemed HOURS. We were always instructed to be polite. He had stories of when the cottage was one of the first on the lake, and how logs had been floated across the lake to build the cottage...my dad told me that he was one of the previous owners of the cottage. I don't believe he built the cottage. I do remember that the cottage was first built as a honeymoon cabin and I always thought that was sooooo romantic. I also remember confiding in my dad that when I got married, I was going to get married at Sweezey. Keep in mind I was probably only 7 or 8 at the time :-)

Well, I won't keep you any longer. Not really sure why I felt the need to share all this meandering with you. I guess, I was so happy to read about you all from the website.

Anyway, ENJOY, ENJOY, ENJOY!!!!!!! And thank you for getting the website up and running, it really took me back to a wonderful time.

Fondly,
Jennifer Steffey

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