My parents, grandparents and I began going to the Waldheim in the summer of 1957. My father was a…read morestressed-out executive at GE and the Waldheim was exactly what he was looking for: no telephones, no tv, no noise, very few motor boats. It was heaven for him. My mother loved the food in the dining room, especially the pies. My grandfather loved the three hearty meals per day and the walk through the woods to go to the dining hall. My grandmother loved to sit in an Adirondack chair and look at the lake.
Every morning at sunrise, Duane --- a jack of all trades -- would come in and make a fire in our fireplace. I slept on a rollaway bed in the living room, and I was always awake when Duane came in. The morning fire warmed up the water heater that stood behind the fireplace and it took the chill off the room. My grandfather woke up early, and he'd come out of his bedroom and every morning he'd call Duane by the name Larry.
My grandfather and I would get dressed and hit the trail early to reach the dining room precisely when it opened. We'd walk up to the porch and a waitress would ring a large bell to let the resort know they were open. We could smell wood burning in the fireplace, bacon frying, coffee brewing, bread baking and pancakes on the griddle. By the time we were finished with breakfast, my parents would arrive with my grandmother and we'd all enjoy the rising sunlight dappling off the lake.
When I looked through contemporary photos of the Waldheim today, I swear nothing has changed. Green water glasses in the dining room, canoes from the boat house on the dock, hikes to nearby lakes for picnics, fishing and swimming off docks in front of the cottages, reading lamps in the windows....it's all still there, unchanged and charming.
When we stayed in Longview, we chased a huge white catfish around North Bay but we didn't catch it for years. When we did, we took a Kodak black and white photo of it that I still have. We spent hours canoeing around, floating through massive populations of exotic water lilies with massive blooms that were forbidden by law to pick. As we canoed, we would look down and see fish swimming lazily below us. I remember dragon flies darting around us, dipping to the surface and leaving circles like rain drops.
At night, we would play cards and read. No tv. Everyone drank, and in those days my father would take an ice pick and break off large chunks of ice from a bin on the front porch. He'd carry the chunks to the bathroom sink and chop it up into cube-sized pieces. The ice had been cut from the lake in the winter and stored between layers of sawdust in the ice house down the road.
All of our senses came alive at the Waldheim and, 47 years later, the smells and sunlight and canoeing across a silent bay all come back to me as some of my best memories of childhood.