Runaway Cow WC 652

Runaway Cow
WC 652

Every summer and every fall my family spent two weeks at a resort/working farm in Crivitz, Wisconsin during the mid-1950s. We lived in the suburbs of Chicago and this resort/farm was as close as we got to paradise—twice a year, no less. My sister, Sharon, was right around 8 years old, and I was six when we began going to Crivitz.

Ahles Resort (located on beautiful Lake Naquebay) is still a working resort. I don’t know whether the working farm is still there, but the resort is and can accommodate twenty or so families. I’m sure the cabins are much nicer than what we stayed in, and I’m sure there is indoor plumbing in the cabins, (not outhouses in the grassy area next to the barn), and refrigerators, not ice boxes. I imagine they would have no takers if they didn’t keep up with the times.

There was an icehouse on the premises; my sister and I were given the daily task of bringing large chunks of ice back to the cabin so our food wouldn’t spoil.

Sharon and I liked “roughing it”, except for the outhouse. My dad liked being able to get in a boat, row out to the center of Lake Naquebay and spend the day fishing in peace. My mother, on the other hand, got stuck with her usual chores, without the conveniences of home. It was the 50s; the rest of us were unaware of what she might be going through. Sorry, Mom (in Heaven)!

After dusk, Sharon and I would hunt nightcrawlers in the long slopping yard that ended at the lake’s edge. It was so exciting and a bit icky. We got a penny a piece for each nightcrawler from the fishermen. Sometimes we would tear the worms in half and that worked to our financial benefit, even though it was not a good thing to do.

Occasionally, my dad would take Sharon and me out on the boat to fish with him. I remember catching a Walleyed Pike. I removed the scales with a makeshift scaler (bottle cap attached to a popsicle stick when we got back to shore. Of course, my mother had to cook it in the antiquated kitchen before we could eat it.

In the fall, we would add to our fun but helping bale hay, bumping along on the hay wagon in the autumn mornings. We would test cow pies by sticking sticks in each one to see if they were rare, medium, or well-done. Yes, I guess it was gross, but it was fun. We learned how to milk cows.

I wasn’t very good. I didn’t have the right grip on the udder, Homer (the farmhand) said, and the milk was pretty dirty when I finished. I was so proud, but in retrospect, I think he had to throw it away.

I was so bad that when the cows saw me coming, they would get restless. They were beautiful animals, and I loved the way they smelled (not their cowpies, but their bodies). However, they were huge compared to an eight-year-old girl, so we had to be careful when they started moving around. Bessie was my favorite, but she didn’t like me very much.

This one time, the last time we were there in the fall, I came toward her with the bucket and my eager, though inept, hands. Bessie saw me, broke out of her stall, and ran out of the barn. Homer had to catch her and bring her back, but my bucket was taken from me, and I was banished from the barn.

So that moment was a bit traumatic at the time, but I have fond memories now of my entire experience during that slice of time at Ahles Resort. My mom and dad and sister are gone. Bessie and Homer are long gone.

I remain, as do my memories. I hold them close.