There was a time, in the first part of the 1900’s, when one could buy all the parts of an entire house through the Sears and Roebuck catalog and build it yourself. It was also possible to order all the various components of a car to be assembled by the purchaser. My dad, as a young man, did just that and the experience made him so familiar with the workings of an automobile that he became a life-long mechanic.

At some time around 1930, he became the proprietor of a small Chevrolet dealership in Knoxville where his reputation as a thorough and capable mechanic, and his backing by influential supporters made him into what is known as a “respected solid citizen.” He worked long hours, willing to go out in the middle of the night to deal with stranded motorists, unlock cars with the keys dangling tauntingly from the ignition inside, and during WWII, to keep the town’s Chevys running with salvaged and rebuilt parts when new cars and replacement parts were unavailable.

At first, he was his only full-time mechanic, parts man, bookkeeper and salesman, but the business grew steadily and, by the mid 1940’s he had several employees and was being pressured to enlarge the business and become more competitive with the several other auto companies in the community. He preferred to keep the dealership as it was, to continue to work only on Chevrolet cars and trucks (other makes required entirely different sets of tools from the ones he was accustomed to.)

He finally conceded that the competition from other dealers was dominating the local auto business, so he sold the dealership and became the shop foreman of the new, larger dealership. For a time, he flourished in the new role, enjoying the benefits of a steady, predictable income and the prospect of a paid vacation each year – something he had never had while being his own boss. Many of his long-time customers were unhappy with the new arrangement and urged him to continue servicing their cars, by-passing the new business. He couldn’t honorably do that, as it was a disloyalty to the new dealer and to the mechanics he supervised.

For over a year, Dad worried his way through the new job, and when it was time to take advantage of his first paid vacation, he planned a trip to his hometown, Mellen, Wisconsin, to show his daughters where he grew up and to visit with the few close friends who remained in the town. Among those friends were Mr. and Mrs. Bowers who had been “a second set of parents” to him after his father had died of tuberculosis at an early age. They lived in a wooded tract near Loon Lake, where Dad had completed his notable long-distance swim around the lake in one session. They had built two log cabins on the property and rented them out to vacationers, fishermen and hunters during the year. Each cabin had sleeping facilities for four people and primitive kitchen arrangements. There was cold running water in each cabin and the bathroom was an out-house – no hardship for us as we were accustomed to similar facilities on our grandparents’ farm.

Because there were six of us, Dad had reserved both cabins – one for himself, Mother and Ruthie who was about to turn four; the other for us three older girls. The gas to the kitchen hot-plate of our cabin was disconnected to prevent us from “burning the place down” and, unfortunately, also from heating water for “sparrow baths.” After all, there was a sparkling lake at our doorstep. A quick dip in its waters would be sufficient, except for the fact that, even though it was mid-July, the water could only be called frigid.

In spite of all the movies about glamorous resorts and beach parties with friendly, handsome, interesting boys, we did not see another vacationer of any description during our nine-day stay. The weather was cold and rainy for the whole time except for one sunny, breezy day when we donned swimsuits and ventured to the beach only to find the water cold and choppy – and not a boy in sight.