Mister Eight-by-Eight
(December 16, 1925 – March 15, 2010)
My dad never acquired most of the popular north woods enthusiasms. He did not fish, cared not a whit for motor boats, and had zero interest in gardening, puttering with hand tools or improving the cabin. Though he enjoyed a walk in the woods and bathed in the lake into his 80s, he was not much of a naturalist, either. The sight of a Pileated Woodpecker fluttering through the pines aroused him almost as much as the sight of a Pigeon hopping along a New York City sidewalk.
But Dad was as devoted to Star Island as anyone. In large part, this had to do with his affection for fellow Islanders. A robust conversationalist, Dad relished his talks with neighbors. He was always chomping to be filled in on the latest Island news and, while personally discreet, he got a huge kick out of Island gossip, too.
Given the nature of his guiding passions (particular strains of literature, journalism, music), he didn’t always have a lot in common with his Island friends. But for Dad, a shared interest in the Island was usually good enough. He viewed a love of the Island as an indicator of character. While he did not often dispense dating advice to his children, he gave us all an earful with one mantra: If you think you are falling in love, bring your sweetheart to the Island for a test run. If it turns out he or she doesn’t take to it, he warned, the relationship is doomed.
Dad said the Island was one of his two favorite spots on earth, the other being the Island’s polar opposite, New York City. Though he made exceptions in the interest of family and employment, he seldom saw the point in going anywhere else.
His favorite Island activity was the same as his favorite New York City activity: reading. For him, Star Island was a fantastic place to read and, over the years, the cabin became stuffed with books. When Mom joked that the library was getting out of hand—it has, by any reasonable standard—Dad would tell her that the books provided insulation.
In the warm months, Dad liked to read in the side yard. If it was too buggy or wet or dark, he preferred our dinky screen porch. Some years ago, while reading on the porch, he peered up from his book and asked me to fetch a tape measure. Given his aforementioned lack of interest in home improvements, this was a puzzling request. Then he asked me to measure the dimensions of the porch. It was a perfect square, eight feet by eight feet, with just enough room to accommodate a day bed, two wicker chairs, and the pine stump where Dad would place his ubiquitous glass of Diet Dr. Pepper.
“That’s all you need, an eight by eight!” he declared, like the scientist who has gleaned a great secret. After that, he always referred to the porch as “The Eight-by-Eight.” The term soon evolved into shorthand for Dad’s overall Island code, which boiled down pretty much to this: keep it simple.
Though our cabin was modernized over the decades, Dad did not approve much of the progress. It was a point of pride with him that we still get our water from a hand pump and still use an outhouse. He always thought something was lost when electric service came to the Island.
Because Dad romanticized the primitive Island of his youth and because he was such an excellent story teller, he stoked a reactionary passion in his kids. As a consequence, we have been horrible pains in the rear when Mom endeavors to make some modest and sensible improvement.
In his memoir, Dad recalled his first trip to the Island, shedding some light on why he fell so hard for the place. It was 1930, not long after his parents, Harriet and Craven, divorced. Harriet had temporarily moved to Iowa City and she was seeking escape from summertime polio outbreaks and swelter. After word got out, a family acquaintance at the University of Iowa, Christian Ruckmick, told her about a paradise on an island in northern Minnesota. Sight unseen, Harriet arranged to rent what is now the Marsh cabin.
“We were the first people on the West Shore that summer,” Dad wrote. “There was no electricity. Mother tried unsuccessfully to light the kerosene lamps. It grew dark, then black. In the helpful manner of children at a difficult time, my sisters and I began to complain and bawl. Mother made sandwiches, assured us that all would be well in the morning, and sent us to bed. Not for the last time Mother was right. The next day dawned sunny and dazzling…We were for the first time in the land of pines, and we never recovered.”
After renting for several summers, Harriet purchased the family’s current cabin for the sum of $600. According to Dad, the neighbor, Mrs. Salmon, had acquired the cabin for her son-in-law but he preferred to spend his time golfing in Minnetonka. Dad always said it was the best investment anyone in our family ever made. He also said we all owed a debt to golf, a sport at which no Mosedale has ever displayed the slightest competence.
Dad’s singular Island achievement came in 1953-54, when he quit his job as a reporter for The Binghamton (NY) Press to spend a full year at the cabin. Working on a novel, reading the great Russian novelists and occasionally palling around with friends in Cass Lake, Dad immersed himself in the rigors and joys of the four seasons on the Island. In later years, he loved to regale family with tales of his happy isolation that winter.
That would remain the largest block of time he would spend at the Island. It may be the largest block of time anyone has spent on the Island. (Even Yellow Head, the most famous of Islanders, only used the place as a summer camp.) Throughout his long and busy working life, Dad managed to get back for a couple of weeks almost every year.
In 1991, after a three-decade career as a news and sports writer for CBS Television, Dad retired. Most years since then, he and Mom made it their custom to come to the Island in May and stay into October. He liked all seasons but was most partial to the fall. Dad said he loved the colors and light and the crisp air. I believe the uninterrupted opportunities to read factored into his calculus, as well. He also used that extra time for writing. Shortly before his death, he completed a novel, The Church of Shakespeare, which came to him in a flash of inspiration while at the cabin.
Even as Dad’s health worsened, and his physical ability to navigate the Island diminished, he managed to return annually. A few years ago, he was crippled as a result of a fall in the yard. After a hospital stay in Bemidji, he came back to the cabin, trapped in a wheelchair, to recuperate. It was only possible because of the kindness of others, especially Darryl who boated over in the North Star weekly to haul Dad down the bank and across the lake for his doctor appointments. Dad was always grateful for that, and for the many Islanders who came over to pitch in or share a few laughs or both.
Last summer’s visit was cut short in July after he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. After returning to New York City for treatment and then home hospice, Dad received dozens of letters, phone calls, emails and visits from Island friends. He was touched by the outpouring, as was our family.
Memorials may be sent in his name to the Leech Lake Area Boys & Girls Club (PO Box 817, Cass Lake, MN 56633) or the Cass Lake Library (P0 Box 836, Cass Lake, MN 56633).
