Goodbye is Inevitable

When I was a kid, my maternal grandparents had a small cabin on Lake Koronis in central Minnesota. This was a true cabin, not the manicured, air conditioned, fiber internet summer homes that people often call cabins. Two bedrooms, each the size of a decent closet, came off a space that was kitchen, dining room, and living room all together, or rather, separated merely by furniture genre. Under the east side of the cabin, the side that cantilevered out over a slope, was a kind of fenced-in crawlspace which stored all manner of tools, fishing gear, spare tires, all the little extras life requires. The crawl space had a dirt floor. The cabin couldn’t have been more than three or four hundred square feet, but it often contained piles of cousins and aunts and uncles and, though the grownups may remember differently, to me it never really felt small. The whole point of going to the cabin was to get away from modernity and get back to the essentials, and anyway who wants to spend all day inside?

A four burner propane stove, manually lit, anchored the kitchen, and a small black and white television the living room. It was only to be turned on if it was raining. The tv only got a couple fuzzy channels anyway, so most often it was cards on a rainy day. My grandparents loved to play Hearts and 500. I can still smell the musty canvas of the old cot on which I’d often sleep. The water tasted like iron. It is difficult for me to stay out of the quicksand of nostalgia and outright romantic love for this time before mobile phones. If I think about it too much I get angry.

When it wasn’t raining, we were outside. From the last wipe of the breakfast dishes to the bell my grandmother rang as a call for supper, my sister, my cousins, and I were off exploring. There was a beach, a rudimentary playground consisting of a merry-go-round, a teeter-totter fashioned from a 2x8, and a metal slide that would sear your buns crispy if it was high noon. There was a multitude of trails through acres of deciduous forest. We would fish, catch frogs, play intricately-ruled and spontaneously created games, and come back to the table dirty, sunburnt, and happy.

My grandparents were the leaders of all this rabble. My grandpa would take us fishing, tubing, or waterskiing in his boat, drive us into town once in a while for ice cream, and my grandma would keep us fed and sometimes bandaged. I remember the board with a little metal clip that my grandfather employed to clean fish, wondering out loud why he let us keep so many sunnies.

I’ve come to realize that the time I spent at that cabin was the early foundation of my outdoor life. I think any of us who enjoy the outdoors have a place or a time like that in their memory, somewhere that started it all. Even now, 40 years later, the smell of the spring woods takes me right back to Lake Koronis. It was there I caught my first fish, spent my first unsupervised moments exploring the woods, got my first poison ivy and, I think it was where I truly learned to love the world and the incredible luck of being born into it.

Time marches forth and that cabin is now in the hands of a different family. My sister, cousins, and I all have kids older than we were back then, and so on and so on. At once the past can seem so far away and then the smell of a thunderstorm or the sound of a two-stroke outboard can make it feel like yesterday.

My grandfather, Roland (Rolly) Utzinger, passed away on May 6, 2026, two months to the day shy of his 97th birthday. My grandmother, Zada Utzinger, is 96 as well and, as of this writing, healthy as a horse. Rolly’s funeral was a bit of a family reunion as we’re all spread out now. A funeral for a 96 year old is, of course, not a tragedy. This one did bring its share of tears, however, because the man was so universally loved. He was probably my clearest example of graciousness, humility, generosity, and a very gentle version of morality. Rolly treated everyone he met with the same respect and attention, and I never heard a negative word uttered against him. He cherished his wife (of 75 years!) and his impressive brood of kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids more than anything on earth. He found great joy in an aluminum fishing boat. This man spent his years with the woman he loved, had a beautiful family, enjoyed deep meaning in his work, traveled the world, lived for 96 years, and died peacefully next to his daughter (my mother) and his wife. That is oversimplifying his long life of course, but if there is a better way to go about this crazy ride, I haven’t heard of it.

I know I can’t go around expecting a man to live longer than 96 years, but I will miss my grandpa. It feels strange knowing he is no longer in the world. The death of someone close always makes us take stock of our lives, how we’re living them, etc. Of course this generally wears off until the next funeral, but we are idiots after all.

When my kids are grown I wonder what will come to their minds when they smell the first signs of spring or see the sky full of stars. They will no doubt look back on their youth as a simpler time, like every generation before them. I know my deep connection to that cabin and its woods was not set upon me intentionally, but what a gift. A free roaming life outdoors and a loving home to spend the nights and rainy days. That was the summertime childhood my grandparents provided, and it’s something for which I will always be thankful.

The last time I saw Rolly was Christmas Eve. I drove to Mankato to join my mom in taking my grandparents to church. It had been a long time since I had been inside a church on Christmas, and I think he appreciated me joining. We went back to my grandparents’ place after the service for some coffee and snacks, and, as I got my coat and prepared to drive home, my grandpa gave me a hug and told me he loved me and he was proud of me. I of course didn’t know that this would be our last interaction, but I think about it a lot. He wrapped up our time together perfectly.

Here’s to the old folks, for heaven’s sake.