During my childhood, I looked forward to visiting a place in Northern Wisconsin. I spent most of my childhood taking this trip to my grandparents’ cabin. The cabin smelled like home, was in perfect condition, and always held a table full of fresh sandwiches ready to be eaten.

The four hour drive was full of fighting with my sister, but also with bonding. There was no better feeling than during the last few moments of the trip, when we turned off highway 40 and approached that yellow, tree-covered cabin. The garage on the hill marked our final destination.

We’d approach and see the big trees sway and the hot sun beat down on the black pavement. My grandma always waited in the window for us at the bottom of the hill in the cabin. We emptied our car, while grandma greeted us with open arms and fresh tea.

I always looked forward to meals. The spices added flavor to the meal and home—and it made the visitors want even more. Breakfast was by far my favorite. I would wake to French toast, sausage, bacon, and maple syrup. Breakfast tasted rustic—like the meals before refrigerators and massive grocery stores. The syrup, thick like our memories, covered the toast.

When we finally get settled in, we would make plans for the next days, consisting of eating, fishing, water skiing, and tubing.

One calm morning, my father and grandpa and I were fishing, trying to catch bass. My grandpa caught bass only minutes after throwing out his line. About ten minutes later, I felt a nibble on my bait. I could tell it was big, so I pulled back on the rod. When the fish surfaced, I could tell I had made my grandpa jealous. I still have the picture of holding both my fish and my grandpa’s fish—his city to my state.

When it was nice and the sun was shining, we would be on the boat in the middle of the lake. The sound of the motor, as it starts out, as like an angry lion trying to escape his cage. The other boats were musical instruments, gliding across the water. The sun reflected off the water and shone through the window. I would look to the cabin and see my grandpa outside, cooking fish and grilling chicken.

I miss that yellow cabin and the smell of the trees, the lake, and the fresh cut grass in the air. I miss the fishing, tubing, and water-skiing on the lake. I miss the rolling hills that carried me to main road, where I played catch with my mom. But most of all, I miss the family bond we all shared at our sacred family place.