Today’s “Southern Voices” essay comes from StyleBlueprint Associate Editor Kate Feinberg. If you have a story to tell, you can find our submission guidelines HERE.
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Growing up in Illinois, there was a lake behind our house and woods off to one side. Summers meant early morning kayak rides, barefoot walks through the trees, and evenings swaying in a hammock, counting birds in the sky. That rhythm shaped me — the quiet of nature, the stillness of water, the deep breath of summer.
But my love for the lake didn’t begin there.
Building Childhood Memories on the Lake
It began decades earlier, on Lake Vermilion in Minnesota. That’s where my great-grandpa, LuVern, had his lake house — a place where my dad and his sisters learned to fish, to waterski, to fall in love with the water. It’s where lake life became part of our family’s DNA.
“Lake life is getting to be surrounded by the beauty of nature and getting to play in it with people I love,” my Aunt Susie told me. “It’s not just the lake — it’s the woods, the birds, the pine-scented air. It’s the seasons, the slowing down, and the work that goes along with it, which is part of the fun.”
Some of my earliest memories are of Great Grandpa Vern. I remember his smile, the clink of dominoes at my grandparents’ dining table, and the carved wooden bear on our fireplace that both frightened and fascinated me.
“Who made it?”
“Your Great Grandpa Vern.”
Hand-carved birds and loons decorated every house in our family. We even had birdhouses painted with scenes of the lake. I no longer needed to ask who made them. I just knew.
My cousins and I would spend hours watching home videos of my dad and his sisters skiing on that Minnesota lake — grainy VHS tapes filled with laughter. Then we’d hop onto my grandparents’ pontoon in Tennessee and go boating ourselves, sometimes “fishing” for stray golf balls instead of actual fish.
“My grandfather loved to fish,” my Aunt Susie said. “He ran the trolling motor with one hand and his fishing rod with the other, all while hooking worms for anyone too squeamish.”
Even as a kid, I understood that the lake wasn’t just recreation. It was family. Memory in motion.
Inheriting Lake Life
When I moved to Nashville for college, I found myself drawn to water again. First with a folding chair beside a lake, later on a paddleboard. I needed to feel tethered to something that reminded me of my roots. The lake grounded me. It reminded me of who I was.
Years later, when my husband and I started house hunting, I didn’t have to think twice. I wanted a house near the lake. I longed for that thread of continuity.
By then, my parents had sold the lake house I grew up in. They brought the boat with them to Tennessee, but the magic started to fade. Life was busy. Maintenance was hard. The boat sat docked nearly an hour away. They were ready to sell it.
But I couldn’t let it go. To me, the boat wasn’t just a boat. It was Sunday afternoons with my dad, sun-drenched memories, a living connection to everything that had come before.
So, we bought the boat, just as my dad once bought his first boat from his parents. A tradition continued.
We moved into a house across the street from the water, but my dad never got to see it. He passed away before he could see how we’d made lake life our own.
The Symbol of the Loon
Shortly after he died, my brother and I helped our mom sort through his things. That’s when I saw them again — the carved, hand-painted loons and birds. Great Grandpa Vern’s creations. They weren’t just decorations. They were symbols of memory, of legacy, of something sacred passed between generations.
“The carved wooden loon represents all of this — and particularly my grandfather’s hands,” Aunt Susie said. “His large, calloused, scarred hands were artistic and gentle. The hands that carved loons and other wildlife during the long Minnesota winters were the same hands that played cards with me as a little girl.”
My grandma Betty, Vern’s daughter, remembers lying awake at night, listening to the loons’ haunting calls. She recalled seeing one carrying a baby on its back — a sight that would later inspire her father’s carvings. Though loons are northern birds, she once spotted one on Lake Dartmoor in Tennessee, stopping briefly on its migration. “It came back the following year,” she said. “But those were the only two times I saw one in Tennessee.”
I remember that lake life isn’t about tubing or skiing. It’s about something quieter. I think of a voice memo my dad once recorded, where I asked him about his favorite things. His answer was simple: “Floating on the lake, listening to the ripple of the waves, and watching for birds.”
That’s who he was. And somehow, it’s who I’ve become, too.
A Grandmother’s Legacy
The lake house wasn’t just Great Grandpa’s domain — Great Grandma Cook left her mark, too. My Aunt Carol remembers her as a sewer, quilter, knitter, canner, gardener, bird watcher, and bread baker. “She passed her love of crafting to both Susie and me,” she said. “And her love of bird watching to Kurt and me. I think of her a lot these days when I bake bread or knit — two of my favorite things to do.”
Carol remembers the crawlspace where Grandma stored her home-canned pickles and jam, next to Grandpa’s homemade wine. She also recalls the sauna at the end of the dock — and the magic that came with it.
“After dinner, once it got dark, we’d put on swimsuits and head to the dock. Kurt, Susie, and I would line up our inner tubes, then go into the sauna, where it was sweltering. There was a tile of a topless mermaid on the floor, made by the property’s previous owner, a potter. It always made us giggle. We’d compete to see who could stay in the longest before running out, screaming, and jumping into the lake.”
Sometimes, they’d wash their hair with peppermint soap as they floated under the stars. One night, the northern lights danced overhead. “It was so magical,” Aunt Carol said.
They spent their summers fishing, sailing, reading Nancy Drew, playing penny poker, spotting bears, and taking day trips to Ely or across the Canadian border. They collected lumber, made fishing sinkers in the garage, and bought penny candy from an old wooden store with a screen door and a “northwoods” smell.
“It was an incredibly idyllic way to spend our childhood,” Carol said. “And I feel very blessed to have had the experience.”
Where We Come From
When my dad passed away, people told me, “I bet he’s in heaven in a canoe, fishing with his grandpa and his dad.”
I believe it.
Where we come from matters. The people who came before us shape more than our names or our habits — they shape our longings, our joys, the places where we feel most ourselves.
For me, that place has always been the lake.
What about you?
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