The Blackbird Inn

09/24/2026

Chapter 6: A Place Among the Pines: Oliver Samuelson, The Whaler

I came to these woods to be alone.

My damn fingers on my left hand don’t bend anymore. Just the thumb and the little finger work, and they work overtime. The other three don’t work since the accident in Spooner. Tendons cut clear through. My fingers don’t work. And I can’t work anymore. I left everyone in Sweden and never did find people to call my own. I worked building railroad bridges when there was work, until my hand got too stiff to hold a hammer anymore. When I was younger, I worked on a whaling ship. It was dirty and hard, and heartbreaking, so I left home at 28, and came here to America for “opportunity”. I was tall and strong, my blue eyes clear and bright. I’d finished the eighth grade and had an idea I could have some peace and be on solid ground. A life at sea wasn’t a life for me. I learned how to drink and I learned how to swear, and I learned most how to feel homesick for a place you only dream of.

And now I found it, finally away from the town, from the people, and go fishing and sleep when I want to sleep. The other families out here don’t bother me much. There’s little ones who play in the trees and don’t think I see them watching, but I do. I must look like a bear to them, the tallest man they’ve ever seen, with more hair on my face than my head, and older even than their grandmother.

“Stay away from the whaler” she says, as though it were a warning to them, but I know it’s a kindness to me. “Ole…” she says softly when she stops by with some bread on quiet mornings, and I shyly wonder if I had raged the night before. My dreams are something terrible. Boys I know dying at sea. Girls I only ever saw, couldn’t speak to slipping away beneath waves. And understanding no one.

Coming to this country when you’re too well grown means never really learning how to talk to people. But that’s okay. I don’t mind. I have my wh***ey for cold nights, and chop the wood with my good hand. My stiff fingers work to prop the wood up. And I’m still strong. But I know my time here is ending, and I wonder how I will be remembered, and who will remember me?

09/14/2026

I ❤️ Local Lodging! Thank you for loving The Blackbird Inn, taking such good care of managing the care, cleaning and guest bookings, for being such kind and passionate partners, and for helping us share our story with the world.

09/10/2026

Coming soon! Blackbird Blend custom coffee in partnership with Woodland Coffee Roasters. To try a cup for yourself, reserve a stay through Local Lodging this fall.

09/06/2026

08/28/2026

A recent guest shared: “Loved it here!!! It was absolutely perfect for a quiet recharge weekend and I honestly cannot wait to come back 😊.”

Thank you to everyone who has called this place their home-away-from-home this summer.

This weekend is open for your spur-of-the-moment end of summer celebration. Any takers?

08/20/2026

Oh my ♥️! Our property manager Jaci shares the story of the timeless beauty of The Blackbird Inn with stunning words and images.

Watching this special place book up all summer has been a joy, and we can’t wait to see you all make special memories of your own there this fall!

Have you booked yet through Local Lodging?

08/16/2026

Fall is calling! Which of these special no-added-cost packages most excites you?

07/18/2026

Reviews for The Blackbird Inn are rolling in and it’s unanimous… you love this place! Reservations available Local Lodging. ❤️ 🐦‍⬛ 🏠

06/23/2026

We are so happy to be able to share this special place with all of you! So far, some of our guests include: birdwatchers, families, couples and friends. Who will be next!?

06/14/2026

Chapter 5: That Summer

We came that summer by train, by bus and on foot the year we were fifteen, not knowing that the next two summers would be my last as a child, or that I would marry my best friend’s brother and start having children of my own. I brought Maureen to the country for the first time, and for once, I felt like I was more worldlier than her. Although I was as thin as a rail, I had strong arms and hands, and I was raised in these woods. Maureen only knew the city, though sometimes she, too, would go out to the lake to her aunt and uncle’s place on the Chain O’ Lakes in Illinois. But, she didn’t know the north woods, and I would be showing her something new.

We arrived late, and my grandma had waited up for us, keeping the bedroom light on. We got to sleep in her bed! I still remember the feel of the fresh air coming in through the screen windows, the sound of the night frogs and bugs, and how good the place smelled. It smelled old and familiar. How I longed for what was familiar! I was so excited to show my best friend everything. I knew we would sleep much better here than in the city, and that it would be so dark we could see the stars.

Maureen complained about the no-see-ums that dotted the white sheets. Like I said, my grandma had left the light on for us, and the tiniest of nighttime gnats had come I through the screen, drawn by the light. Moe wouldn’t go to sleep until we’d killed all of them. That was our first, and one of only two arguments we ever had. I was so tired and just wanted to go to bed, but I complied, killing these harmless nothings, and going to bed bitter-tired and sad she had ruined what I had been so excited to show her.

But that disappointment was short-lived. After that, she never complained again, even though we had to pump the water and use buckets to flush the toilet. She was big and strong, and people were afraid of her back home. She could hit the ball like no one else and her size was intimidating, but I knew she was really soft. Only I knew that me, someone half her weight, and quiet as a mouse, was the strong one.

We fished that summer, when we stayed for two glorious weeks, the air cool and damp at night, the sun hot and throbbing during the day. We tried to fish with rubber gloves on. I’ve never been much of a fisherwoman, though I do love to eat them. It was so hard to bait a hook that we ended up cutting off the fingertips of the rubber gloves, and only wearing them. It was like that that we caught sunfish, which my grandmother fileted and fried up in a pan over her wood-burning cook stove. Nothing ever tasted so good.

We met boys in town, country boys, thick-palmed and strong, so unlike the slick, tough-talking boys back home. One took us to see his dairy farm and even named a baby cow after Maureen’s nickname, Moe! I never forgot that all my life. My friend, who became like my sister, was my lifelong confidante. No one could drive me crazier, make me laugh as hard, or make me remember things so sweetly as she did.

That next summer, we went on a trip to Baraboo, where Moe insisted we sleep in the car because we swore there were Indians in the woods all around us. But the summer of 1955 was the last time I stayed in Rice Lake, which even though I’m 86 years old now, still feels like home. My grandmother died in the fall of 1956, and maybe it’s because we’d moved away, and maybe it’s because I’d gotten to share that one golden summer there with my two favorite people in the world– my best friend and my grandmother– that the stone house on Rice Lake, would remain etched in my mind like a storybook image. Like a memory that could never be stained, like a picture that would never fade.

I think back often on the days of my youth and have always felt that this house was the most peaceful place, and I am comforted just knowing that it exists. Made of stone and stories, and I am so grateful that I have been a part of it all.