Growing Up at the Lake

My name is Rick Jersey, and I’ve had the pleasure of jumping into this lake for 65 years.

I caught my first sunfish when I was five. In the mid-1960s, my parents, Dorothy and Henry Brown, purchased five lots from Joel Hill—two lakefront and three in the back. On one of the lakefront lots was a little green building we called “The Hut.” Joel Hill was a man who owned much of the land around the lake, as well as the local sawmill. He helped move the hut onto one of the back lots and cleared one of the lakefront lots for us. By 1968, our new house was under construction.

Living in The Hut was an adventure! The day after school ended, we’d get haircuts, new bathing suits, and head straight to the lake. Around that time, we were gifted a two-seater outhouse by our cousins, the Faists. We were living large! But I’ll admit, trips to the outhouse at night were always a little scary.

Back then, it seemed normal for husbands to leave for home base on Sunday nights and return on Friday nights. Us kids would sit on the fence at the farm, eagerly waiting for their return. The road was still dirt in those days.

With school out, we’d wake up, throw on our bathing suits, and be dressed for the entire day. Many mornings, my brother Bob and I were already swimming in the lake before breakfast.

The Hut itself was... well, let’s call it rustic. It had holes in the roof and the occasional mouse for a tenant. Six people and two dogs crammed into that tiny building made for quite the experience—especially when it rained. Pots and buckets would line the floor, catching drips. There were two tiny bedrooms for us four kids, while our parents slept on a foldout couch. The kitchen was minimal: a small table, a small refrigerator, a couple of dressers, and a small sink with running lake water. Baths consisted of a dip in the lake with a bar of soap. And of course, there was our trusty outhouse!

We also had a 1963 Chrysler Imperial convertible that doubled as our pantry. I’m fairly certain a mouse or two lived in there as well.

During the day, we were young, wild, and free—riding bikes, catching frogs and snakes. I think we nearly wiped out the orange salamander population in our neck of the woods. We thought nothing of grabbing a rowboat with a few life jackets, loading up three or four kids, and swimming across the lake and back. Oh, to be that young and fit again!

Growing up, we had two sets of aunts, uncles, and cousins at the lake—the Faist and Von Ohlson families. Eventually, you got to know all the families around the lake. One family I’ll always remember is the Crambos. They had one girl and four boys. My older sister Terri went on to marry Ron, the oldest son, and they had three great kids who also grew up here.

Johnny, the next oldest, became my best friend. We spent countless hours hanging out, riding bikes, shooting BB guns, and maybe even stealing a little gas at night so we could ski the next day. When he was 17, Johnny showed up with a small Honda motorcycle. That started my lifelong love of bikes. My cousin Lisa and Johnny dated on and off back then, and we were all very close.

Tragically, when Johnny was just 19 or 20, he was killed in a motorcycle crash. Losing him so young was heartbreaking. It was a sad and difficult time for everyone at Duck Harbor.

As I got older, graduated school, and had my own car, the lake seemed less important. My attention shifted to my girlfriend, my friends, my hot Camaro, and my rock band. Eventually, I moved to California, got married, moved back east, and had three beautiful kids—who all spent their summers at this wonderful place.

Now, at 70 years old, every time I dive into this lake, it still feels like home.

Pat’s Note:

I was thrilled when my brother Rick wrote this story—it was so much fun to relive all these memories. After he started writing, he called to ask if it was okay to include two pictures with the story. I said, “Absolutely, it’s your story!” So, attached is a picture of The Hut... and, being the stinker that he is, a picture of me at 10 years old washing my feet in The Hut’s small kitchen sink. Love you too, Rick!