In the late 1970s my parents bought a summer cabin on Fourth Lake. Calling it a summer cabin is high praise because it was little more than a shack. But it was only a five-minute run from the front door to the lakefront for five-year-old me and that made me look forward to our time there. I still loathed the drive.
Once we were in the car—the station wagon or Suburban or whatever land-ship my father happened to own at the time, always second-hand, always a wrench turn away from sound running condition—and we four kids were settled among the luggage, tools and building materials my father had
