The Lakeside Cottage

You could have knocked this place over with a feather when it was first built. Just a little cottage on Lake Wandawega. You'd never know it now.

Back in the 1920s, a brother and his two sisters threw up a few simple cabins, right next to each other. They used to share a single outdoor sink. They lived on top of each other every summer, eating, swimming, and sleeping all within a few feet of one another. A hundred years later, it still feels the same. The lake's right there, and it's still telling you to slow down.

In the '50s, a stonemason put his stamp on the place. He built two big fireplaces, set ancient fossils right into the mantels. And paneled the walls with walnut. He built it to last, and it has.

By the '70s, it changed hands. A PE teacher bought it with her best friend, a nun. For 50 years, they came out on the weekends. They prayed and laughed and threw parties. They had a hidden life together in a world that wouldn't let them be who they were.

Last year, when we came along, we were the fourth owners. There wasn't much left besides the bare bones—the walnut walls, the stone fireplaces, the cedar shingles. We peeled back five layers of carpet and linoleum and found the original 1930s tiles. We even saved the old Robin's Egg Blue Murphy sink. It felt like the house was telling us to hold on to the good stuff, the things that stick around.

So we started to put our own life on top of the old stuff. An '80s leather sofa. Old rugs and travertine tables. Books from home. Art from our friends. We even brought back the ugly green carpet. It was a thing back in the day—green carpet in a lake house, mirroring the grass outside.