End of a season; end of an era
Monday, September 1, 2008 at 08:12PM 
My friend Cary and I have been bringing our families and friends "up nort'" to a small resort nearly every Labor Day weekend since 1993. Over the years, it become tradition. (See 2006 and 2007 reports.)
But next year the tradition ends. Bill and Nancy, the owners of Cry of the Loon, are retiring and will rent no more. Knowing this, I spent an entire weekend with a lump in my throat. And I am not a particularly sentimental person. Or maybe I am since I've been spending lots of time thinking about tradition and its importance to kids.
When I was a little boy growing up on the prairie, my family's traditions centered around the big holidays - primarily Thanksgiving and Christmas, every year going to the same set of grandparents, eating the same sorts of food, and pounding on the same set of cousins. My grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins all lived within driving distance and the terms "blended" or "nontraditional" family were not in our vocabulary or experience.
Cary's and my kids did not have the "traditional" holiday experience. More than two sets of grandparents often living at great distances ruled out much consistency in how they spent Thanksgiving and Christmas. But for our kids, the Labor Day pilgrimage each year to Cry of the Loon became the tradition. Each year we religiously:
- Arrived on the Friday night and left on Monday morning.
- Took a bike ride around Lake Itasca.
- Climbed the park's fire tower (making it to the top was a rite of passage).
- Had malts served in the big steel cans at the Douglas Lodge.
- Watched the Tom Hanks movie Big.
- Grilled burgers and dogs.
- Braved the cool lake waters for a "last summer swim," pretty much regardless of the weather.
I have always been surprised at the vehemence with which our kids held the weekend's events sacrosanct. Staying in a different cabin or even sitting at a different table in a favorite restaurant was met with protest. New food items were held in disdain. Order and sameness and regularity were the rule and violation from it was a sin.
As we were packing up to leave this morning, 7-year-old grandson Paul asked, "But Grandpa, aren't we going to watch Giant before we go?" I could not figure out what he was taking about. I told him that the movie Giant was for adults and he wouldn't like it and if he was thinking of Iron Giant, the cartoon, the lodge didn't have it. Finally in frustration, Paul explained the plot: "You know, Grandpa, it's where the boy wakes up grown up and dances on the piano in the toy store." Ah, it was Big, not Giant, he wanted. A new generation demanding tradition as well.
I also believe tradition is as (or maybe more) important to us older people. I realized on my drive back that I always take the back roads, the Blue Highways, from the lodge to home. It started because I wanted to avoid the holiday traffic mess on the popular roads, but yesterday I had to admit that I just plain get pleasure from driving in the country past the small lakes and old barns and little towns with little intakes of breath at how beautiful our state can be. Back roads add an hour, perhaps, to the 250 mile trip. But it is an hour well-spent.
Rob Rubis is struggling with the conflict between the traditional and the new in his school and library program at ISB, as I am sure many of us are. Are we too quick to dismiss the traditions in our schools and in our practice? Do both our students and our staff genuinely need some continuity, some sameness, even if it seems dated, in their speedy, changing lives?
Do we offer enough traditions for our kids? And how do we build these routines and beloved practices? Something I will be thinking about as our students roll back in tomorrow.
Last swim. Paul at Cry of the Loon, Labor Day 2008.
