VFL Essay 12 "Backyard Pond" by Philip Palmquist

Barely large enough for Canada geese to escape over the lush green canopy which engulfs our suburban backyard pond, this elderly ecosystem provides year round entertainment and natural beauty for those tuned into its humble qualities. At first glance one might think otherwise, as the thick mat of duckweed, powered by years of runoff from not so “green” residential lawn treatments, masks its beauty for several months of the year. But pay close attention and we can observe life’s dance from our perch above the pond.

Each year as the ice passes, our permanent biological residents awake to the excitement of the migratory fowl’s return, many of which use this short landing strip as a safe place to rest on their long flights to more northern puddles. For others; like the wood duck and mallard, this destination ushers in annual breeding and nesting rituals. Meanwhile shy painted turtles awake to bask in the sun on remnants of fallen guardians which sink deeper into the muck with each passing year, and a chorus of leopard frogs escalates into a sleep depriving din. Spring rains fill this pothole to overflowing as muskrats, raccoons, woodchucks, coyotes and deer leave their quiet tracks in the surrounding dampness.

As the warmth and dryness of summer ensues, reptilian elders begin egg laying, on land laid claim to long before our self proclaimed ownership. The snapper, blandings and painted turtles are but a few that leave the protective confines of the pond in this reproductive crusade. Feathery fishermen and long legged predators; the king fisher, snowy egret, blue, green and night herons stalk tadpoles and unwary amphibians hiding within the emerging vegetation. The carnival like atmosphere continues into late summer nights as owls on hoot patrol scan the pond’s protective borders in hopes of stirring a careless rabbit, vole, or frog.

As autumn arrives the pond becomes a gathering place of honkers and quackers who devour the flight powering vegetation in anticipation of their upcoming journey. Yet again the landing strip is tested and retested before great northern flocks gracefully drop in to refuel on their way south.
Those unable to leave for the winter return to the muddy realms as the days shorten, as the mercury falls life within the pond slows. Yet we continue to enjoy our pond as we play on the crystal blanket which covers our sleeping friends.



VFL Essay 11 "In a Cove on Black Bay" by Dale Mulfinger

For most fishermen, Lake Vermilion is considered a muskie or walleye lake where serious fishing boats, tackle and bait are in play for the “big catch”. Or, if it is not muskie or walleye, then definitely bass, particularly at fishing contest events. Come the spring just after the ice is out it might be crappies the fishermen are after. No one talks about the lake as a sunfish haven, yet that is the sport for me. I think it is because I like to eat them, and it is the fish I caught as a kid with a cane pole.

Having a cabin on Lake Vermilion allows me ample opportunity to find just the perfect quiet little bays to while away an hour or two watching bobbers floating in the water. I consider it zen time where the solitude of the bay is interrupted only by a loon diving or an otter playing on the shore. A few bounces and a quick tug and you have got a fifty/fifty chance your catch will be big enough to save for the frying pan. A few hours invested and you’ve got a meal for four. Head out with a mate and it is a meal for eight.

Grand children make particularly good mates, at least when they are old enough to bait their own hooks. Out in my old Lund aluminum, they learn the art of patience and that male conversations can occur in three word sentences. “It’s a strike!”; or “Sun’s too hot!”; “Time for lunch.”, or “I gotta’ pee.” There are just a few particular traditions a grandfather is responsible for and fishing for sunfish is one of them.

My brother-in-law, the farmer, was a cabin guest on one memorable fishing weekend. He is as casually committed to pan fishing as I am and we both look back at the two hours on a Saturday morning as a wonderful memory. The bobbers rarely remained above the surface for more than a few seconds and the size of the blue gills and pumpkin seeds just keep growing. I think in the five or six years that have followed, that day is the day that I caught the largest and the most. That evening, dining in the screen porch with extended family, those sunnies tasted better than Julia Child’s French salmon recipe.

Dale Mulfinger is a principle architect of SALA Architects, Inc. of Minneapolis, Stillwater and Excelsior. He is an adjunct professor of architecture at the University of Minnesota, where he teaches a class on cabin design. He is the author of Cabin, published in 2001, and Cabinology: A Handbook to Your Private Hideaway in 2008.



VFL Essay 10 "Honeymoon Cottage" by Debra Palmquist

Our wedding gift from my in-laws was the use of the family cottage for our honeymoon. Built by Grandpa Henry from available materials in hard times; lapped siding for walls, barn windows, a field stone chimney, this enchanting small white structure has hugged the shoreline of Big Birch Lake in central Minnesota since 1934. The cottage, furnished with wicker arm chairs, old Vogue magazines, turtle shells and an ancient ice box, would be our own for the week. Its tidy simplicity also meant no indoor plumbing or warm shower. We arrived just as the sun was setting, struck by the beautiful orange and purple reflected on the lake and the fact that we were now married.

The days unfolded with sailing, swimming, and games of Scrabble on the lawn. We boated to Little Birch passing through the weedy inlet, explored the rocky bottom of the lake with scuba gear, bicycled the gravel country roads, stopping at the general store for ice cream treats. We cooked our suppers in the cast iron pans, used lake water for dish washing and gathered wild flowers for our table. We dreamed on pillow cases suffused in lavender propped on the squeaky springs of the double bed, making plans for the old house we had just purchased back in Saint Paul.

We have been married now for 27 years and although we have changed and grown, the cottage remains the same. We have returned to Big Birch many times, introducing our three children to lazy days of digging in the sand, finding the loon as it surfaces near the sailboat and where the water lilies hide behind the cattails, at times wishing for the convenience of an indoor toilet and a working kitchen sink. But as much as I like the comforts of modern life, I have come to understand they would degrade the life here. Its graceful simplicity that Grandpa Henry created reminds me that the goal is to safeguard this place from the demands of our hectic world, not to submit to it. As the screen door slams and I make trips to the outdoor biffy, I can still see the cottage in the golden light of the Honeymoon we shared when all was new.



VFL Essay 9: "The Easy Girls" by Joy Riggs

We were the Easy Girls. I don’t remember which one of us coined the nickname, but trust me – it’s more innocent than it sounds. We were about 5 years old, and the name made sense to us, even if it gave our parents pause.

The Easy Girls Club had three members and a simple purpose: to spend the summer exploring our East Lake Brophy neighborhood, four miles west of Alexandria. Clad in sun-bleached swimsuits, Sue, Jodi and I would walk barefoot in the sand, or on top of stones piled along the edge of the beach, carefully skirting the occasional fish carcass abuzz with flies. We’d search for soft, colorful rocks and pound them into a fine powder using heavier rocks. When we gathered enough powder to fill several jars, we set up shop at the end of my gravel driveway. It was like a lemonade stand, except we were peddling rock powder parfaits. Sue’s mom kindly bought them all.

The Easy Girls liked to drink Kool-Aid and eat Old Dutch potato chips. We’d spread a blanket on Jodi’s lawn, the smell of Coppertone 4 and baby oil mingling with the scent of rose bushes. On some days, our moms would call us in for lunch – peanut butter and jelly, or bologna sandwiches – but we’d soon meet up again outside.

Every morning was full of possibilities. Would we climb the maple tree in Sue’s yard? Or tumble down the hill, spinning between grass and sky, until we were breathless and exhausted? Should we tie our T-shirts into makeshift halter tops and pretend to star in the “I Dream of Jeannie” TV show?

Sometimes the Easy Girls joined the rest of the neighborhood kids, swimming from Sue’s dock out to the raft. Everyone would congregate on one corner of the raft and try to sink it. Inevitably, those standing closest to the water would fall in, and the rest of us would jump in after them, splashing and laughing.

Our only worries, besides keeping up with the bigger kids, were horseflies, lake itch and snapping turtles – not necessarily in that order.

Life on the lake was good that summer. We were the Easy Girls.



VFL Essay 8: "Passages" by Kathleen Preece

“This is a skating year. They come infrequently – like a blue moon. Cold temperatures and long nights lay a thin, smooth skin of ice on Marquette. Tonight I am restless, unsettled. I pad cautiously in slippered feet through darkness, carrying my skates. Under a toenail clipping of a moon so bright it stains the ice in tangerine, I skim over waters that moan – arguing against the season’s ever-tightening hold.”

My journal entry is dated December 2006. Three years have passed. Without expectation, I receive a winter’s blessing of another skating year.

Marquette accepts her bondage with jagged splits and with occasional sighs. Her ice is a clear sounding board for its own wails and complaints, belaboring the very cold that beget it.

My landscape has changed in time’s orderly sequence these three years past; the ebb and flow that come with a passage. Summer – now a memory: trees transplanted from the new road cutting its way across my woodlot revealed green at their tips – affirmation they accepted new ground.

Fox kits who scattered before headlights, dispersed and found worlds of their own; the boney “ditch-dog,” settled at my feet – an orphan who put her own roots down. Another branch broke off the ancient apple tree next to where I live and work. The old pony grows white hairs where he argued with younger pasture-mates.

Today, after three days of wind and snow, clear skies provide the perfect punctuation to a new perspective for a Sabbath. Winter lies on her back, soaking up sunshine, pacifying me at the crossroads of these senses.

It will happen: the sun will sing spring again, prompting icicles to dance off rooflines. The ponies’ thick coats will shed in itchy clumps on fence posts.

But today, how perfectly good to know this stark solitude of winter. Myself, containing its own warmth; my life, poised, as if frozen in self-suspension.

There will be new memories: tangerine moments too achingly beautiful for words; of blue moons; of a special love, gone wrong.

Oh, to be part of the amazing: the baptism of sunrises, the last rites of sunsets – mute gospels to the constancy of seasons.

To have come this far, to have immersed in the intensity of seasons; to have experienced the epiphany of a skating world; and to know, also, how good it will be, to melt.