Journal Entry 11

The following is an entry from my memoir. I will be placing various ones on this site for your reading pleasure. I would love comments as I am trying to make it better

The Necessity of a Place:
“Thirty Years at the Water’s Edge”
By Bob Dentzman
DRAFT MANUSCRIPT – NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION
Copyright © 2025 by Bob Dentzman. All rights reserved
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This is an unpublished work provided for review purposes only. No part of this manuscript may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the
“The stories within these pages are my own. They are told to the best of my memory, though I recognize that memory is an imperfect lens. I have made every effort to ensure the integrity of the events recorded here; however, in some instances names have been changed and certain details altered to respect the privacy of others. Dialogue has been created from memory. While certain sequences have been compressed for the sake of the narrative. This is not a historical record, but a personal one.”

JOURNAL ENTRY 11: NEIGHBORS AND THE WINTER SOCIAL SCENE (WINTER 1994-1995)

This was more than a place. It was a social ecosystem. Connected. A large family. We all had similar objectives:
A retreat from the hectic day-to-day. A place for solitude and reflection. A helping community. A place to gather and celebrate together.

It was a diverse group: retirees, white-collar, and blue-collar workers. Some were year-round residents braving icy Michigan winters. Others were snowbirds retreating to warmer climes in winter. Then there were us, the weekenders looking to leave daily life behind. Of the twenty-four cottages, a handful were year-rounders.

The social scene was interesting. Half were friends from downstate; several were related. Most all had a history together. It was a family—a large, diverse, and, like many families, a bit dysfunctional.

We were the first new people on the lake in over a decade: outsiders, newbies. How would we be accepted? We were fortunate; our next-door neighbors, Cuff and Bev, were in the middle of the scene. They were good friends with everyone. More importantly, they took us under their wings and eased us into the group.

Typically, each weekend would have an informal gathering: cocktails, catching up on the week, or simply being together. On a typical Saturday, if you were working on a project, someone would stop by mid-afternoon with an extra beer, check progress, suggest a beer break, and offer insights or help.

One hard and fast rule when working on projects together: tradesmen measured, cut, and installed. Office workers carried, shoveled, and took on work that did not require any degree of skill. It was, though humbling, a good rule.

After several informal get-togethers with Cuff and Bev at their “wooden tent,” and their close friends next door, Bob and Casey Norin, we were invited to the Christmas party. One reliable constant of lake parties: more than enough food, more than enough alcohol, and an abundance of stories. Many were repeated often over the years, where you felt like a participant or observer in the story.

At this first party, we established ourselves. We were entering the family. It felt natural. Once accepted, we received knowledge, support, and resources that helped ingrain us into the ecosystem. Our decision was reinforced.

At that first Christmas party, we learned personal histories—how everyone came here. We also learned these people enjoyed life and liquor. We learned the term ARI (Alcohol-Related Incidents)—there were many.

This was a safe haven. Many had teenage kids. At the lake, they could drink their beer, act out, and have fun. The rule was it needed to be contained to lake property. No booze cruises. The result was many kids that partied here became the next generation of stewards of our safe haven.

Coming back to ARIs, two of the most memorable were the Coke. (Her real name was Mary. Not sure of the origin of the nickname.) sledding accident and Norin’s Arctic plunge.

The Coke incident was a result of a sledding run gone bad. After a long night of drinking, a group exhibited liquor-influenced judgment and decided sledding down a wooded hill onto the lake at one of the cottages was a good idea. You can guess the result. On one of the first runs, she hit a tree and broke a collar bone. A trip to the hospital followed.

The Norin incident was a bit different. Bob Norin, a former Naval Aviator and Captain, was of Swedish descent. The Swedes, as a rule, loved Aquavit as a winter warmer. Bob would typically bring a bottle, remove the cork, and toss it away. The gauntlet had been laid—the bottle was to be emptied. Aquavit is horrible stuff—it tastes like a combination of jet fuel and nail polish remover, but it gets the job done.

On one of those fateful nights, Bob, fully fueled, stripped down to nothing but a Viking helm with horns and wandered down to the lake. Mind you, this was early winter; we were iced over, but not enough to support a person. Undeterred, Bob walked out on the dock, stepped on the ice, and promptly fell through. Fortunately, he was quickly rescued, with the only injury being his pride.

Hard to imagine this was the behavior of a 40-year career naval officer, who was once the Naval Attaché to the King of Sweden, Inspector General, former temporary Captain on the aircraft carrier Independence, and a fighter pilot. But here he was—just Bob, affectionately called Skipper, living out his older years at the lake.

While his resume sounds made up, I witnessed several things which validated these stories. Air Force jets from a nearby post would periodically do a flyby and dip their wings in front of Bob’s cottage. On a different occasion, I saw a photo of Henry Kissinger at Bob’s, signed “To my good friend Bob.” One day while I was there, he received a letter forwarded from the Department of the Navy; it was from the “Swedish Cigar Club,” a prestigious club of politicians, military officers, and Swedish royalty. Bob was one of two non-Swedish nationals admitted, the other Lord Mountbatten, who was assassinated in 1979. Once again, a Norin story was confirmed. Though the letter was in Swedish, Bob’s name was listed as a member.

Many more Norin stories would follow over the years.
The third memorable ARI involved our neighbors George and Ginny. They lived four cottages down from us, about two hundred yards away.
George and Ginny were married twice—to each other. The first time, Ginny divorced George because he was such an ogre when he had back problems. After they were fixed, they got back together.

This particular incident tested that reunion. George was at Quinn’s one night, deep into the Scotch. Late into the night. As he staggered home, he apparently got tired. He laid down on a hillside about a hundred yards from his house and slept there all night.
When he was not home in the morning, Ginny packed the car and drove back to Holland.
Not sure how George ever got back.