Holy Days at Holiday Acres

Hasn't Changed Since I Was Eight Years Old

A Beautiful Place Inspires a Little Art

Cousins

You Can Never Have Too Many Little Norwegian Folk

Commemorating Her Trip to New York with Grandmommy

Daddy Loves a Clean Car

We Will Have to Watch Mary From the Window

She's Back

Stephens Gals

Janel and Cabin Eight

World's Best Snow Fort

Our Cedar Lodge with the Greenery from the Souhradas

Cosy, Cosy, Cosy

That Tree is the Guardian of Cedar Lodge

Eating Icicles on a Snowman Base

Snow Shoes and Fresh Snow

Kotrba Boys

We Made Footprints to Every Cabin

Skis Are Actually Easier. . . 

In Her Element?  Definitely. 

The Three Coins Dining Room--I Was Here at Her Age

Bill and I Ate Every Meal Here on Our Honeymoon

Prime Rib? Of Course. 

If I Was Going to Drink a Little Glass of Beer, it Would Be Here. 

Having Breakfast on the Dance Floor Where I Danced with My Grandpa

It's Only 7 Degrees. Don't Fall In. 

She's Got It. 

This Photo Doesn't Do Justice to the Beauty-But it Tries. 

A Tour of the Kitchen with Kim, the Third Generation Owner. 

Dr. Who? 

A Fourth Pancake? 

We spent our Stephens Christmas in Rhinelander this year. We spent four nights at Holiday Acres Resort on Thompson Lake in Wisconsin. The seven of us stayed in the five bedroom "Cedar Lodge."

By now you know that I believe places are sacred, but this place is close to highest on my list.

When I was about eight we surprised my grandparents by showing up for their 40th wedding anniversary. Hope and John celebrated here every year. After the final harvest--my grandpa was free to actually take a vacation and the Fall leaves were always in their glory. This particular trip my cousins Robin, and Emily came and we all danced in itchy wool dresses on the small dance floor to the jazz quartet playing on the little stage in the classic bar with the stone fountains and colored lights. The owner would pull up a chair and hob knob with my grandparents in between carving the huge ham for the Friday night buffet.

We went back more times than I can count, mostly in the Fall, but once for Christmas. We stayed in cabin five that year. Always fresh snow. The owners, the Zambons, brought us a small Christmas tree harvested from massive north woods. My mom filled the fireplace mantel with fresh cut greens. The cousins swam in the big indoor pool and Grandpa threw quarters for us to dive.

Fast forward umpteen years and nothing would do but for Bill and I to spend our honeymoon at Holiday Acres. We stayed in--you guessed it--cabin five. Since it was March and off season the restaurant was closed so we spent our evening meals at the Rhinelander Pub and Cafe, downtown. Prime rib. Rueben sandwiches. We took back homemade caramel rolls for breakfast. You know the kind of place. I don't drink much beer, but bars in Wisconsin with little wavy glasses and red lights and wooden swivel chairs with red vinyl make it awfully tempting.

We went back once or twice after my grandpa died--with my grandma and our own children. The Zambons cried and hugged my grandma. It was their loss too. That's the kind of place it is.

It was the first place Calvin could run free on a vacation. Back and forth from cabin to park and park to lodge. Safety. Freedom. It was where he learned to cry when you leave for home, an important lesson in the Stephens family.

We went back for Christmas the year my dad died--to get out of the house--but not too far away from the memories.

Here we are five years later putting our footsteps in the fresh snow up to every cabin's window, especially the ones we stayed in over the years. Most of them were closed for the winter or empty awaiting the New Year's Eve festivities. Twenty-eight. Eight. Five. Seventeen. Calvin would know all the numbers. I just remember the moments.

Over the years the Zambons had their share of losses too. Time does that. As Kim, their son, cleared snow from the John Deere plow he hollered to my mom--Johny would be proud of me. Johny-the intimate name for my grandfather. Yes, he would be proud but he would still have given some tractor pointers.

Thank you Kim and Kari Zambon--for keeping the flame alive--and maintaining the sacred places--those dining halls and swimming pools and red with yellow trim cabins--those same little envelopes with three coins to throw in the fountain. The famous jazz musician photos and all the art--the Baldwin grand in respectable tune. We cousins sang Christmas carols at that piano in the off afternoon hours years ago and this year we got to hear Mary's Christmas Song, again. That's all sacred to me. It's a labor of love--the family resort. I don't know how they do it. I hope they know that it's worth it--as I suspect ours is not the only family with the sacrament of tradition at Holiday Acres.

I believe the word holiday comes from the word holy-days.  So--yes, I think Holy Days Acres is  appropriate. If folks do look down from heaven--I'm sure the Souhradas and Zambons had some pretty big smiles this week.

We are home now. And the snow is not so fresh, but our memories serve us just as well as Gladys the waitress who brought us pancakes--she celebrated fifty years of service there--and she would pull up a chair to visit with Hope and Johny--all those years ago. Yes, our memories will hold us till next time--along with several hundred photos. . .and a few of those little paper coin packets lingering in the junk drawers and jewelry boxes. The Three Coins Dining Room--the three good wishes--have blessed us all.