Saturday, April 19, 2025 – Day 249

Saturday, April 19, 2025

Good morning, y’all!

Friday was an inside day at the cabin. This time of year, the weather in this part of Wisconsin isn’t exactly inviting. Winter is over—so long snowmobiling, ice fishing, and skiing—and summer’s still hiding until May. March and April are like nature’s awkward teenage years: nothing fits, and nobody knows what to do.

But Wisconsinites, bless ‘em, have figured it out: go to the bar! Naturally, Wisconsin has the most bars per capita in the country. That might also explain the record-breaking brandy consumption—mostly in the form of Brandy Old Fashioneds, because if you’re going to drink through a weather transition, you might as well do it with class.

The closest spot to the cabin is a little restaurant-bar called Lake Placid Inn, within walking distance—well, more like trudging distance in April. Sadly, we drove by yesterday and saw a for sale sign hanging on the front. A Northwoods staple for decades, it’s looked a little tired since at least the late ‘70s. Now, with that sign up, it’s practically begging for demolition. But there’s hope—a new dreamer might swoop in, give it a facelift, and have it humming again by summer.

The most recent owners were a family from Milwaukee. The dad, newly retired, chased the dream of running a little breakfast joint. He bought the place in the ’80s, transformed it from a rowdy bar to a cozy breakfast spot, and roped in the whole family to help. Dad was behind the bar, Mom in the kitchen, and the adult kids waited tables. It was a small spot, and if you wanted a hearty breakfast, it was perfect—as long as you had a couple of hours to kill.

Step one upon arrival: write your name on the chalkboard and wait. Ask how long, and Diane (the daughter) might snap at you. They were clearly channeling Ed Debevic’s with their snarky service. Not sure why that was the vibe, but they kept it going for decades. And the food? Worth it. You’d waddle out afterward in a food coma, groaning the whole walk back to the cabin. So what to do during the long wait? Bloody Marys, fully loaded. The adults softened with booze, while the kids fidgeted. Maybe that’s why Wisconsin lets minors drink at bars with their parents—everyone wins. By the second Bloody Mary, you’re praying not to be called—let’s just live at the bar now.

Over forty years, the parents aged out of the business. Hopefully, the dream paid off in soul currency, if not dollars. When the kids took over, things… declined. The brother became the bartender and tried to out-snark Diane. The food lost its edge, the wait lost its charm, and by last summer, their hours depended on Diane’s mood. In August, we made one final visit. The writing was on the wall—faint, but in permanent marker. It’s always sad to lose a favorite neighborhood joint.

The rest of our Friday was laid-back. We spent hours flipping through old photos for a slideshow and making bracelets. Going through pics from my Waukegan days brought back a flood of memories—well, more like a light drizzle; memory recall was spotty. We even made a “Where’s Bill?” pile because my buddy Bill was in so many photos. Someone suggested a raffle: guess how many photos have Bill in them. The answer? Too many.

In the afternoon, I decided to check out the lake, curious to see how the ice was clearing. It was foggy enough to feel like we were living inside a snow globe—very moody, very Wisconsin April. The lake looked like it had frozen whitecaps, like time hit “pause” mid-windstorm. I bundled up and grabbed my cane for the short walk to the boathouse.

Everyone tried to talk me out of it—no handrails, steep steps—but I was determined. Lis joined me, probably to make sure I didn’t go full slapstick down the stairs.

Fast forward to the dramatic moment: Lis opened the door to the boathouse, I tried to step in, and my right leg had other plans. I fell backward—right into the retaining wall, which caught me with a forehead kiss and dropped me like a sack of potatoes. Fall #7. This one hurt. Left a decent gash and an egg on top of my head.

Lis jumped into action (literally) and ran for backup. It’s a good thing she came along to put a plan into action. I tried to collect myself and get on all fours, which took longer than I’d like to admit. Maria showed up to help, and the two of them managed to get me standing. Cindy arrived last—probably delayed by a shoe crisis—and the three of them ushered me back inside for first aid. The verdict: a two-inch gash, but not deep. More of a scrape than a slice, thankfully—no blood pouring down my face, which felt like a small miracle. Cleaned up, iced up, and settled in with no signs of concussion. Given the steep stairs and head impact, I’d call that a win.

Today I will probably not be returning to the scene of the crime and I’ll just hang in the house by the fire. My riskiest challenge on the agenda will be a shower and leave it there. If it goes awry, I’ll let you know tomorrow, presuming I’m not in the E.R.

Have a great and safe Saturday.

Love you guys! ❤️