Growing up in Northern Wisconsin was mostly great, but If I had a complaint, it would be the short summers. A good hot day seemed never to occur before the 4th of July, and one could expect a killing frost early September. So, we had to make those few short weeks count — one plus was the county fairs in late August, when the rains were few and the daylight still long.
One particularly beautiful summer weekday found my brother John (15), his friend Dickie Jorgensen (also 15) and his brother Duane (13) and myself (13) chatting about how much we’d like to go swimming at Pearson Lake that afternoon. Without asking my mother, or their parents, we each went home and managed to sneak our suits out of the house, then hiked to the outskirts of town on Highway 86. The older guys did the thumb-work, and we were lucky.
A guy in an old pickup stopped and we were assigned to the rear. He gave us a direct ride to our favorite lake seven miles east. It was all good! The fact the spring-fed lake with a rocky bottom, many “drop-offs,” and of course, no life guards or other swimmers didn’t faze us. We had a nice swim, but then, all of a sudden, John and Dickie weren’t around. Duane and I pretty much panicked, but soon realized our older siblings had deserted us.
We got dressed (boys dressed in the woods to the right, girls to the left!) and returned to the highway. Neither of us was willing to “thumb our way back to town,” so we started the long hike. The sun no longer high in the sky, reminded us we weren’t making much progress. There was little traffic, and no one stopped to see if we needed help. We knew we were in trouble, and what, just what, would be our punishment?
Finally, something good, (or was it good?) happened. A familiar car approached us from ahead. It was Duane’s dad. It must have been after 5:00, when the locker plant that he owned closed for the day, dinner was about to be served, at their house, and “where was Duane?”
Apparently, Dickie “fessed up,” stating that he and John felt their chances of getting a ride back to town were better without their younger siblings.
We rode back to town in total silence. I wonder if I even thanked Mr. Jorgensen when he dropped me off. My mother was furious, and she echoed a familiar rant, “Your grandfather was a minister, and pulling such a stunt……” I don’t remember John’s punishment, other than another familiar line, “Wait till your father gets home.”
As for me, it was a totally frightening incident.
