Summer Homes For City People Summer 2023

Captain’s Haven

In spite of my constant awareness of the finite nature of my existence, I tend to push off the things that I love in favor of the things that I must. Years ago, my father and I bought a handsome sailboat from the East Coast and for the first few years that followed I made that sailboat a meaningful part of my summer. If I were to scroll back far enough through the photos on my phone, I’d find images of Kestrel on a breezy summer evening with a full sail of wind. Other photos are of my children, sometimes at the helm and other times just leaning against the mast as we let the diesel engine slowly push us back to the pier. The cover of this summer’s magazine was chosen, in part, to remind me that it’s important to do the things that I love, because no matter how much time I spend doing the things I must, there’s nothing quite like a sunset sail on this lake.

There are times when I’m hesitant to publish this magazine where I tell you of my experiences at the lake and about the fanciful houses that I’ve sold. I feel that the consistent recognition and accolades are just too much. But this year, perhaps more than any that has come before, it’s important to remind everyone just who leads the Lake Geneva real estate market. The high values of our lakefront sales have proven an intoxicating lure to all varieties of new brokerages and new agents, all of whom are busy jockeying for their own space inside this heavily nuanced, remarkably concise, lakefront market. In spite of the onslaught of new competition, I’ve maintained my position atop the market by providing honest,  articulate insights into this market and deftly navigating my prized clients through a constantly evolving real estate landscape. In doing so, I continue to lead overall sales production by leaps and bounds. 2022 marked the seventh consecutive year that I’ve been the top producing agent in Walworth County, and as has been my tendency in recent years, my production was more than 200% that of the second place agent. This is my 27th summer selling Lake Geneva, and I don’t intend to slow down now.

The market today is experiencing some meaningful pricing dislocation, as the ongoing inventory shortage wreaks havoc on well established historical valuation methods. In spite of the current harried environment, there is still value to be found for buyers who seek to establish a lasting footprint inside our market. I would have expected prices and demand to have slowed by this point in the cycle, but as I write this introduction in May of 2023 there is no impactful slowdown in sight. Buyers are still plentiful and sellers are still scarce. Between these two extremes is where the market is made, and if you find yourself at the lake this summer is need of some guidance, I’d be honored to help.

David C. Curry

Geneva Lakefront Realty, LLC

323 Broad St Suite 101, Lake Geneva, WI 53147 262.245.9000 | dave@genevalakefrontrealty.com

Birds and Feathers

Iarrived at my office this morning and read a comment on my blog from some person I don’t know who suggested I’m a “chubby bastard with size 44 pants,” which is, in part, true. I am chubby, admittedly so. I workout and I play tennis but I also love pizza and things made with flour and butter and eggs, fried or baked, and so goes the struggle of my life. But I’m only a 38 pant, and in some makes I’m a more snug 36, so while this guy with his 2 am comment was clearly mistaken, it is good to know he wasn’t snooping through my closet. If he had been he’d likely see a fantastic collection of white pants and white shorts and blue shirts, both long and short sleeved, XL mostly, with some L’s lurking in the shadows. But before this comment adjusted my pleasant mood, something else happened.

I was driving down Geneva Street, as I do each and every morning, and a kid driving a lawn tractor caught my attention. His red tractor pulled a small trailer with a push mower and weed whip, and as he turned off of Williams Street into Herb’s, I was overwhelmed by memories of my own adolescence. I didn’t want to be the guy that stopped to chat with a kid and his lawn mower, but I couldn’t help myself. I circled the block and pulled up to the pump while he was topping off his two gallon gas can; the only difference between me in 1992 and this kid in 2022 was that my two gallons cost less than $2. I rolled down my window and asked him how many lawns he was mowing each week. Twelve, he said. I asked him how much money he’d make. $500 or so. I asked him how long it took to mow those lawns. A day, maybe a day and a half. I asked him how old he was. Fifteen. I told him to keep up the good work and that when I was his age I mowed lawns in town and drove my lawn tractor to the same gas station. Never mind my tractor was Simplicity orange and his was red, and my gas station was Herb’s and his is, well, Herb’s, the rest is the same. I told him I’d mow lawns on these beautiful summer days, my hands stained green from the morning grass that clogged my mower deck, while my friends were playing on the lake. I said I was

certain they made fun of me for how silly I looked crossing Geneva Street with my tractor. I told him if he keeps working hard that he’ll ultimately have the last laugh. He thanked me and called me “Sir,” which made me feel older than I am, and I drove away in a car that might have helped him think that I was right. The nostalgic tears in my eyes were hidden by my sunglasses.

It’s a funny thing to so vividly remember a regular day in your childhood. I used to think older people forgot what things were once like. That they were trapped in a loosening frame of mind where they thought only of the feeble things in front of them. That my grandma thought only of her jello that I had to set close to her right hand. But now I’m certain that the bright days that were our childhoods never fade from our memories. I saw that kid this morning and I saw myself. I thought of the days that I spent mowing lawns with my friend Eric, stopping to buy bottles of Sprite and bags of Gardetto’s. When we stood in line at Doc’s to buy our fried egg rolls and how the sweet and sour sauce would make our hands sticky and our white Curry Enterprises t-shirts stained. We were free then, with a lifetime in front of us to make of it what we would choose. But Eric died this spring and I think of him every single day and I wonder if there’s a particular reason why he had to die and why I’m still alive. I wonder what happened to those fifteen year old kids that drove up and down that old street hoping for glimpse of a girl we both liked. We were curious about what would come next, but the future was never something we could picture. That inability to see what would come next was probably a good thing.

I think about the people who meet me today and think they know who I am. The commenter this morning thinks I’m a “chubby bastard” because I probably said something about a house that he didn’t like. I see my life today and I cannot help but recognize the immense blessings that have been so undeservingly covering my life. But I don’t really think of myself the way that other people might

think of me. I’m not a jerk with white pants and a white house. I’m not just an okay father or a pretty mediocre husband. I don’t really think of myself that way, and I’m not sure why. When the end of this wonderful life comes and who I was is marked only with a stone on the grass I think it should just read that I was a Kid From The Bay. Because no

matter what I spent my life doing, no matter what positive or negative impact I someday leave, I think I’m a lot more like that kid at the gas station this morning than the guy typing at this computer.

Originally written August 19th, 2022.

Mr. Complacent

I’m complacent. I can feel it. I still turn over every rock and sweat out every deal that part of me will never fade. It’ll kill me, but it won’t fade. But this weather, man. It’s sunny again. I’m here, again. I have things to do, again. But the sun. It’s bright and it’s warm and my skin tells you that I’ve spent time under it but my mind doesn’t feel the same. I didn’t rest under this summer sun. It gave me all of the opportunities I could have ever wanted, as a point of fact, more than I expected. But still I ignored it. I didn’t boat like I should have and I didn’t swim like I should have. My wife tells the kids that I don’t boat anymore. “The Top Agent In The State,” “The Lake Geneva Ambassador,” and he doesn’t even like to boat anymore, my wife says. The kids nod as though it’s obviously true. My blood pressure rises as the shame consumes me.

I can’t even really argue with them anymore. I have been complacent. It’s the sunshine, I tell them. It’s just too much. The sky is too blue and the sun is too hot. I need shade and rest, though even if I find the first I can’t locate the latter. I haven’t grabbed onto these days, I’ve just let them be. The summer has been one of the nicest summers I can remember, and that consistent sunshine has led me down a dangerous path towards my summer’s final resting place: complacency. How can I find the urgency to absorb this sunshine when I know it’s going to be sunny later? Why rush to find it when I know tomorrow will probably be the same? I have an appointment with my dermatologist later this fall to review the damage that the sun has already caused me, (thanks for not knowing what sunscreen was, mom) why should I want to invite more of it?

The women are walking the market now. It’s Thursday, after all. Later today, they’ll lunch and some will boat and I’ll be out shooting a video with my video people. I’ll be outside, sure, but I won’t really be outside. I’ll be under the sun, but not really. I’ll be enjoying this day, but will I be? Probably not. But there’s always tomorrow, and after a summer like we’ve just had and the best two months of the year on our doorstep, my complacency should be understandable, even if it’s not forgivable.

Originally written September 8th, 2022. I was complacent last summer, and that’s unacceptable.

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Whataboutism

The frothy whip of the real estate market has improved the lives and wellbeing of many, and in that list of many I include my own life and the lives of my family. If you’ve been an owner or a beneficiary of the transactional churn, you know that the times are good. But beyond personal enrichment through the gain of equity (remember only realized equity is an actual gain), we have all benefited by the improvement of the homes that would have never been improved absent this incredible valuation increase. If a turn key house with lake access costs $500k, then a dumpy little house on the highway will never be worth $500k. But if a lake access cottage is now worth $900k, then the $500k highway house has a shot. This is what has happened.

Beyond these improvements and these obvious benefits to society’s aesthetic, something dangerous has grown from this hot market soup. The condition is as old as time, but it is especially and remarkably contagious during times of market froth. It’s the Whataboutism of real estate pricing, and it’s as strong today as it’s ever been. If you’re uncertain with the concept, allow me to provide your primer.

Accurate market valuations are found by properly comparing like things. If a 130k mile 1992 Dodge truck with four wheel drive and a few rusty patches is worth $5500, then it stands to reason that a 135k mile 1993 Dodge truck with four wheel drive and some rust is worth something quite similar. The lower mileage 2005 Dodge truck with four wheel drive would be worth more, and the rusty 1988 Dodge truck, unless it’s very special for some reason, is worth less. This is how we achieve an understanding of value. If one thing is worth this much, then the thing that’s better is worth more. In real estate, the concept of market valuation is typically this simple.

When seeking to understand value, the first thing we have to do is compare like things. A ranch house on the lake is not similar to a ranch house in

Elkhorn. A vacant lot with a view of the water and lake access is not like a vacant lot in a neighborhood subdivision where the only view is of endless vinyl. In real estate, we identify and narrow, and then we narrow further until we find similar products. A 3500 square foot ranch built in the 1970s on a 100’ lakefront lot in Williams Bay is worth roughly the same as a 3500 square foot 70s ranch on a 100’ lakefront lot in Lake Geneva. And if the property in Williams Bay just sold for $4.5M, then we can assume the property in Lake Geneva is worth some variable of the same number, with adjustments made to account for location and condition nuance.

How I loved this method of real estate valuation. It has served me well over my lifetime of doing this job, and yet, this tried and true method of determining value is under assault from the frothy Whataboutists. The Whataboutists are the evangelists of Whataboutism, and they’re everywhere. Their theology suggests that the ranch house in Williams Bay for $4M has a direct and undeniable impact of the valuation of a vinyl ranch in Geneva Township. They insist that a house in the South Shore Club that sold for $5M last year means their duplex in the city of Lake Geneva is worth $1M. Their conviction runs deep, and why shouldn’t it? If you own the vinyl ranch or the duplex you’re going to find this brand of religion extremely compelling.

These folks exist during all markets, but their foment is especially obnoxious during these periods of exceptional market performance. The key to engaging these folks is to slowly and politely insist that they are insane. If that doesn’t work, just tell them to calm down. They love that. And if that doesn’t work, which it won’t, then firmly and condescendingly tell them why a lakefront house has nothing to do with the value of their farm in Elkhorn. That should work.

Originally written February 2nd, 2022. No matter how hot a market might be, we should never fail to hold pricing accountable.

STEPH MUSUR DESIGNS

These Days

Ispend most of my time wondering how Jackson Browne could write this song when he was just sixteen years old. I remember being 16 years old. I had a pair of red lotto shorts that I wore with a tan polo shirt. I remember being quite confident in that ensemble, but it never gave me the confidence to write a song like “These Days.” In fact, I never wrote any song because I’m not a musician and for the life of me I cannot figure out how song writers avoid accidentally stealing riffs and melodies from songs that are already written. If I knew how to write music and I really set my mind to it I’m sure I’d write something that stole a melody from Blink 182 and a bass line from Nirvana and I’d end up being sued. But no one even downloaded the song!, I’d plead as they led me away in cuffs, with my family shaking their heads in the shadows of the tall building where my fate was gaveled while some of my competitors stand in the sunshine trying so very hard to conceal their glee.

But those aren’t the days I’m talking about. I’m talking about these days. The days this week. The days this month. The days that we have left. This summer has been an all-time summer. The weather has been wonderful, unless you’re relegated to weekend visits only, then your interpretation of the weather might be somewhat less positive. There has been ample sun, appropriate summer heat, and just enough rain to keep our plants and trees and lawns mostly alive. The day-tripping covid visitors have largely left us alone this summer, and my only complaint about a Sunday afternoon spent lakeside are the go-fast boats that identify as flies in my otherwise tasty bowl of punch.

A meaningful benefit of a summer with weather that starts early and persists is that I continue to check the calendar, feeling as though I’m running out of time, and yet, each time I check I still have many days, weeks, and perhaps months of summer left. I sense the summer slipping through my sweaty summer fingers, but I’m delighted to see that there’s still time. Still time to make things right. Still time to get on the boat. Still time to sit on the pier. To jump in the water. To sit in the shade on a bench and wonder why I haven’t done more of this bench-sitting in my life. Still time to walk the shore path to lose that sympathy weight I put on when my wife was pregnant nineteen years ago. It’s beautifully sunny today and the air is dry and the lake is blue and we all still have plenty of time.

Originally written July 25th, 2022. In the middle of an all-time summer it’s important to realize what a world class location Lake Geneva truly is.

Prolific

On the edge of my property, well beyond where the kept grass turns to prairie and after the prairie turns to forest, I have a magnificent oak tree. It’s my oak tree. It might straddle my lot line with the neighboring farm, but because that farm likely doesn’t value the oak tree like I do, I’ve decided that it’s mine. I haven’t owned very many oak trees in my life, which mandates I place special importance on this one. It’s obscured mostly from view, it’s green leaves blending in with a deciduous mess of mulberry and walnut and maple, but I know it’s over there, regal and impressive. Important to me, important to everyone.

Yet for all of the cultural importance we place on oak trees, viewing them as stalwarts of strength and courage, they’re really quite terrible at reproducing. I have this massive oak tree and yet all around it there isn’t a single smaller oak tree to be found. This tree has, presumably, had decades upon decades to find a way to push out at least one acorn that would germinate and grow, and yet, here we are, 2022 and not a single offspring. Maybe that’s why we so prize an Oak Savanah. Because we know how hard it is for these ridiculous trees to give us what we really want: more oak trees.

Further away from the oak tree and closer to my driveway you’ll find the remnants of what was, at one time, a rather impressive clutch of silver maples. Before you think I’m keen on the names of various trees, just know that I only know this is a silver maple patch because of the distinct way that silver maples look like silver maples. They just are, silver maples. This once meaningful patch of trees that used to define the roadside of the old farmstead is now nearly finished. Years ago, the limbs began breaking off during heavy winds or otherwise unruly storms. Now the limbs break off in the slightest breeze. If it’s too sunny in the afternoon a limb will fall to its rotten death. If it’s too cold, the limbs will fall. If the air is too still, they’ll fall. The trees are dying and they are messy and I rather dislike them now. I have urged them

to live but they won’t. Maple trees like these are moody and fatalistic.

Between the oak and the maples and the tree line filled with aspen or something that looks like aspen, are the rest of my trees. There are many mulberry trees, which we know to be invasive here, but the sheer number of the trees led me to make a sign that announces the name of my sorta-farm: Mulberry Hill. It sounded nice and so I had a sign maker make the sign. Between the wildflowers and the vegetables that my wife plants and then leaves to rot and decay back into the soil before contemplating harvest, the birds should very much appreciate my commitment to leaving the wild things alone.

This time of year I spend a few minutes twice a day blowing off one particular section of my driveway. The section runs through my burgeoning walnut forest, and what a forest it is. The walnut trees drop their messy packages of seeds all over my driveway, each landing with a pronounced thud. Some splatter. The packaging of this seed is really quite impressive. The size of a small baseball, they only fall from the tree once the wrapping of the seed is beginning to rot. When they hit the ground the rotting package opens up to reveal a walnut seed. The seed, presumably, grows easily and quickly, fueled by these messy remnants, and like magic, a new walnut tree is born. I have hundreds of these walnut trees. Hundreds of varying shapes and sizes and ages, but still, hundreds. While my maples die and my oak tree suffers through a lifetime of impotence, my walnut trees thrive.

No one likes walnut trees. They’re too messy. They’re too virulent. But everyone loves oak trees, a symbol of strength and courage. Everyone loves maple trees, with their showy fall displays and sweet sap. Yet all I can grow in my soil are the invasive mulberry trees and these walnut trees. I imagine if I died in my home some day and no one was left to wonder about me, soon enough no one would even know there’s a house back in this walnut

TANNER FIELDS

forest. Without my nippers and saw and watchful eye, the mulberries and walnuts would overtake my property and my house would be swallowed up by the dark, damp ground. The walnuts would grow from the rotting boards that framed where I once lived. The oak would stand by, letting it all happen, the maples would be too weak to even object. Soon,

my house would be but a memory and my property will sell to some developer who would need to purchase it at a severely discounted price.

Originally written September 20th, 2022. I own lots of walnut trees.

Barrington Pools, Inc.

Designed by Joyce Zuelke, CKBD

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Idle Hands

If I’ve accomplished nothing else in my life, I’ve certainly succeeded in identifying the many reasons people buy Lake Geneva vacation homes. I’ve rambled on these pages about nothing in particular. I've tried incredibly hard to bite my tongue when miserable properties sell for all of the money, and wandered around in subtle tones when sellers do stupid things and reap stupid outcomes. But aside from those, I’ve given the reasons. The reasons why we are all here. The reasons why people arrive or the reasons why they should. If you always dreamed of a lake house here ever since your childhood visit to your uncle’s rented cottage on Oakwood Street, then, it seems to me, that when your financial capability catches up with your dream, you should buy yourself a vacation home here. If you’ve recently found yourself in the pleasant situation of being successful and you feel that perhaps it’s time you buy a nearby lake house to force yourself to take some time for yourself and your family, then that’s a good idea, too. But for all of the noble reasons and the idyllic ones there is one more: Pure, simple, terrible, Boredom.

A friend of mine once wondered aloud about the paradox of wealth. He said that if he were ever to find it, he wouldn’t complicate his life in the way that most wealthy do. He wouldn’t buy cars and he wouldn’t buy boats and he wouldn’t buy houses. He reasoned that those things are just complications that obstruct the supposed simplicity of an enjoyable existence. I listened to him and, in a way, I agreed. But in another more meaningful way, I couldn’t have disagreed more. As I drove around the lake yesterday and watched the business of an unwinding summer underway, I thought of

something else. The rich complicate their lives because what else are they to do? Sit around and stare at gilded walls?

Boredom doesn’t mean a lack of activity. I have a brother who works like crazy, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t bored. I have friends in private equity that work their tails off, and that has nothing to do with being bored. Perhaps bored isn’t the word you’d prefer I use. Maybe it’s unchallenged. Uninspired. Maybe it’s complacent. The interpretations are the same. Life, even one lived by someone of means, can be remarkably uninspired. This is why people have hobbies. This is why I fly fish. This is why people drive sports cars. Do they want to impress their neighbors when they launch out of their driveways? Of course, but really they’re just trying to find entertainment. Once financial success is achieved, there must be something else challenging worth contemplating.

And that’s why people find their way to Lake Geneva. They’re seeking entertainment. They’re seeking enjoyment. They’re seeking a challenge. Some are seeking solitude, but not the mundane variety that is a weekend spent in your finely manicured suburban back yard. That’s some real solitude, of the depressing sort. For every buyer who buys their Lake Geneva home because they’ve wanted to be here since they were a child, there is a buyer who found her way here two months ago because it seemed like the sort of complication that just might solve the tricky issue of painful and persistent affluence compounded boredom.

Originally written October 31st, 2022

SCOTTIE PETERSON

My Friend Eric

Ihave a friend named Eric whom you probably don’t know. I met Eric when we were both in the sixth grade attending a small church in Williams Bay. We were friendly without being friends, sharing a mutual burden that was being stuck in that basement church on so many Sunday mornings…mornings that often crept into the early afternoons. Eric went to Faith Christian that year, and I went to Williams Bay Public School. We were alike but different, only friends in that one setting.

The next year I transferred to Faith Christian, and Eric was my obvious lifeline at this new school. We became real friends that year, playing sports together and enduring those basement Sunday mornings just as we had before. Eric would come over to swim from my parents’ pier, doing the best gainers off the neighboring diving board. He had curly hair that flopped over his forehead and olive skin that tanned so much better than mine. We went to school together and Awana together where we indulged in our favorite pastime of making fun of the kids we didn’t know and scheming up ways to talk to girls we’d never talk to.

In the summer we played basketball in my parents' driveway, and on warm days towards the end of winter we’d chip out the ice under the hoop and spread table salt so we could play some more. We fished together in northern Minnesota on our shared summer vacations and once we rode our bikes around the entire lake, or we rode them at least until my tire popped and I had to walk my bike back. We played ice hockey in the winter and we watched fishing shows on Saturday afternoons in my living room. Channel 32 or 38, which one I cannot remember, but they were both fuzzy and the weather dictated if the shows would be viewable or not. We rode his dangerous dirt bike through his makeshift backyard track and marveled at his dad’s cell phone, complete with large carrying case, shoulder straps, and a multitude of wires that made no sense to 80s kids.

Eric started to work for me during our freshman

year, but even though our shirts said Curry Enterprises and I was the “boss” and he was my “employee,” we mowed lawns together because we were friends. We ate endless bags of Gardetto’s and drank gallons of Sprite and once we both watched in shame while one of our lawn mowing customers violently swept his foot against the grain of the grass while frantically accusing us of doing a terrible job mowing his lawn. The customer was right—we were doing a bad job. But in our defense, that old Gravely 50 made it very difficult to sharpen the blades.

One summer I went to Strawberry Lake with my family and Eric stayed home to mow. He filled out his time card on the front and back of an old scrap of cardboard, illustrating his day and recounting his victories over the various lawns. It reads like a cartoon complete with inside jokes, pop culture references, and sketches of his activity. Today there is not one thing in my house that dates to 1994 except that piece of cardboard that Eric drew and wrote on. I have it on a shelf and I’ve never lost track of it through a dozen moves, because it has always mattered to me.

In the spring of our Sophomore year, I turned 16 and passed my driver’s test. I had an old Dodge pick up truck that I had bought the previous fall, and the countdown to passing that test and driving in my white chariot with American Racing mag wheels had finally expired. The first thing I did upon arriving home with my license was drive that truck to Eric’s house to pick him up. We drove and we drove and we had freedom of such flavorful variety that admittedly I’ve never felt since that day. The following winter Eric and I were driving east on Highway 50 during a snow day when the truck spun out and ended up in the ditch. Uninjured, we laughed at our luck before a good Samaritan stopped to pull us back to the road.

We played Soul Asylum and Smashing Pumpkins in his upstairs bedroom on the powerful speakers his dad bought. We watched the movies of the day,

Encino Man and Hot Shots, the latter from the uncomfortable front row in the old Lake Geneva theatre. We went on Canadian Adventure Camp with our friend Jon, riding in that bus through the entirety of Michigan until they dropped us by some rainy day path that we hiked until we caught the train to camp where we met girls and steered our shaky canoes through the tannic waters of southern Ontario. A group of modern day Nick Adams’s, we supposed.

Sometime during the fall of our Junior year, Eric’s parents sent him to the Williams Bay Public School, and our Faith days were abruptly and cruelly over. Eric quickly settled in with a new group of friends and our friendship fizzled. I cannot remember why it fizzled so quickly, but it did. Had text messaging existed, I insist we would have stayed friends, but I remember distinctly thinking that he was on to better things with his fancy new friends and I didn’t dare invite the embarrassment of leaving an unreturned voice message on his home answering machine.

The next twenty-five years would pass in a blink and Eric and I were nothing but old friends who lived as strangers in the same town. We’d exchange a wave now and then, but I do not believe we spoke from 1996 to 2021. In the spring of this past year

I heard from another friend that Eric was sick. He was given a terminal diagnosis with a few weeks to live. The news didn’t sink in until I saw his faded face that broadcast his illness and exposed his fear. Over the past year, I’ve done what I can to make sure he knows that he matters to me. His life matters. His memories matter. His wife and his son matter. Our history matters. Those days on the hockey rink and in the front seat of my truck and on the icy driveways where we dunked tennis balls, and one volleyball, all matter.

My friend Eric died yesterday. I visited Eric two days before he died, but I was unwilling or unable to wake him from his sleep and left without admitting what I knew would happen next. He battled bravely and heroically but that damned cancer faced him at every turn. I’ve had relatives die. My own brother died when I was too young to know it. Old classmates have died. Clients have died. Family members of friends have died. I’ve mourned them all. But my friend Eric means more to me than all of the rest of them, because my adolescence is bound with his. We came of age together in this town, and where we ended up can’t matter as much as where we started.

Eric John Vanderstappen

July 20th, 1977 — April 3rd, 2022

Consequentialism

It wasn’t my fault that I knew where the fish were kept. The second horse in from the end, tucked behind the built in bench, just to the shoreward side of the bow of the last boat on the pier. A little yellow rope. If you weren’t looking, you wouldn’t have found it. But I was looking, and so I found it, and when I found it I reached down and pulled up the basket. I stood back to take inventory of the fish as they flopped on the pier as the metal basket collapsed over them. Two large perch. One smallmouth (undersized), two crappies (oversized), and no fewer than three rock bass. They were handsome specimens, but this wasn’t time to marvel. This was time to take action. A glance to the shore. The coast was clear. Quickly and excitedly I reached into the basket and grabbed the first perch. I dropped her in the water with a kersplash. The other perch was next, then the bass and then the rest. I rushed the metal fish prison back into the water. Another glance to the shore. No one was there. No one had noticed. No one except for me and the fish. They were free and I was their hero. The man who owned the fish basket would be back tomorrow to fill it again, and as I ran back up to the house I laughed thinking of his expression when he realized that his fish had been freed. I’ll do it again tomorrow, I figured. I spent years playing this game, and while I know the man on the pier ate more fish than I released, it gave me some consolation knowing I tried to even the score.

Hey Jealousy

Ideclared it to be the finest place I have ever visited. No, more than that. The finest place I have ever seen, be that in print or on film. The finest of everything at any time in all ways. The quiet pastels of olive trees in late September, when the Mistral winds have started to blow but they haven’t blown so much that the trees are bothered. I imagine their version of bothered and battered would look delightful, as well. The baring trees against the deep sea, the grasses gone dull and the flowers in hiding. What a place this was, is, and would be. In the morning, the men polish the door frames and the women hurry about with ironed sheets. If you cut open a croissant, as I did daily, you’ll see little but the space where the butter was, connected barely by the thinnest strands of accommodating gluten. This is a place. The place. There is nothing else, nothing better, nothing more. Where do we go from here, a friend asked me. I didn’t know the answer. No where, I’d assume. Birth, This Place, Death. That would be enough.

But that sea. The colors. The breeze. The sun filtering through those wind-tussled pines and the way it dabbled and swayed as I walked the pebbles from hotel to sea. How could I recover from this? How could I see this and feel that and know that it all exists and then ask the chauffeur for a ride to the airport where the stillness of this place would be replaced by a jostled bus ride that wove through an active taxi-way at JFK? How can I adjust to a life that is lived where I must live it? How can my eyes ever find anything else worth their attention? Why go anywhere at all, I wondered from the part of the plane that was once only visible to me through a glimpse behind a heavy and usually closed curtain.

I decided then and there that things couldn’t be the same. Not now. Not after this. My life will be lived in pure misery. I nodded painfully and clenched my jaw with humiliated resignation. I hung my head

and wondered if I’d bother eating a croissant in Lake Geneva ever again. No, I decided. I will not. It’ll be a hunger strike of sorts. I refuse to eat the croissants that are sold in Lake Geneva because they resemble small pieces of bread and that’s not what these croissants were like. Did you know I’m a world class croissant connoisseur? Did you think my soft middle was the result of hops and distilled grains? No, no, no, my poison is flour and butter baked, cooled, and then painted with thick butter and fine strawberry jellies. I’ve traveled the world to find all of the croissants, and at the age of forty-four I finally discovered nirvana. Hotel Du Cap, that’s where this is. That’s where it is. Everything else is miserable and terrible and I cannot eat a croissant again and I will not enjoy a moment of my life until I return. The pilot from JFK, fresh off of watching Top Gun: Maverick for the sixteenth time, pitched and dipped and violently lurched his way into ORD and this is what I was thinking. If this plane lands with my life intact, what does it matter? I’m going to hate everything, anyway. I closed my eyes and prayed for the worst.

My espresso this morning wasn’t bad, I guess. My wife busied herself with making sure our dogs knew how much we missed them. My hydrangeas, kissed by the cold air of late September, glowed deep and lusty pink, their leaves a delightful pitch of dull green that, dare I think it, reminded me of the green in those olive leaves. In our absence, the golden rod turned from showy to calm, from insisting to relaxed. No one was polishing the hardware on my doors and my table cloth wasn’t ironed, but were they any lesser than the ones that were polished and ironed? It’s really not so bad, being home, my wife said. It’s pretty nice, we both agreed. I readied myself for my day and drove the farm fields that lead from my house to the lake, where it was shrouded in fog. What a beautiful thing, I decided, seeing it new today even

as I’ve seen it millions of times. What an absolutely stunning place, I decided. I forgave myself for thinking otherwise and my spirits improved as I drove from one lakeside village to the next, where the fog from one gave way to sunshine at the next.

I wondered if I should grab a croissant just in case my take on the croissant was wrong as well, but I

thought better of it. Other places can be better than this place in very specific ways, and I’m content to leave the croissants to the French.

Originally written September 30th, 2022. There’s a theme in my life, where I worry about growing tired of this place but then realize that it’s just not possible.

DSMITH

TANNER FIELDS

There aren’t very many things that I can do today that make me feel like I felt when I was young. When I was young, I mowed lawns. I remember walking, or riding, with the whirl of the blades and the steady noise of the engine, the smell of exhaust in the air and of gasoline on my hands. What great thoughts I was able to think while that engine ran. My mind was free while my body handled the mower and walked those patterns. I thought of girls and cars and sports and school and friends. I imagined all of the things that might be possible, and thought through scenarios that might happen or had happened, and generally enjoyed thinking while I was working. Today, I still mow my own lawn, and while my dreams might be different, they are still free and simple while the mower whirls and the grass flies.

For years now, my older brother has annually gifted me and my younger brother one or two packs of unopened 1989 Upper Deck Baseball cards. For those of you who were between the ages of eight and fourteen in 1989, you know these cards. You know the Ken Griffey Junior rookie card that we all wanted so very desperately. You know the foil wrapper and the glossy cards that presented such a huge advancement over the uninspired dull Tops or Donruss wax packs. You know that we knew the Upper Deck cards were the future, brought to us in the present. What an advancement, I thought as I stood in the Delavan K-Mart with $5, hoping to buy three packs but probably only two. Two packs of Upper Deck and the lovely synthetic strips inside a pack of Big League Chew. The excitement of opening those packs cannot be understood by my children. It was something you had to experience to appreciate, and I’m glad to have experienced it.

This year, an unexpected gift from a friend brought me back to those years, even as my older brother once again produced his traditional packs of Upper Deck. My brothers and I opened those cards this week, pulling all of the players we grew up loving,

watching, or at least recognizing. Keith Hernandez, Nolan Ryan, Vance Law, Kirby Puckett and Bo Jackson. Bo Knows, stated my late friend Eric’s poster that hung in his childhood bedroom. But about this gift—it was an unopened box of 1991 Donruss, and I wasn’t prepared for the wallop of nostalgia that I’d feel when opening those packs. It should be the same as the annual nostalgia from the 1989 Upper Deck packs, but it isn’t. It’s different, and I’m so very glad.

1991 Donruss is a more traditional card, dull and ugly in spite of the splashes of blue and yellow, tucked away in a wax wrapper that has held up surprisingly well for these 31 years. I wasn’t going to open these cards, but after possessing the box of 36 packs for two days, I caved and opened a pack. Bang, Ken Griffey Junior, caught by the photographer at the top of his sweet lefty swing. But it wasn’t the stars that did it for me, it was the other guys. Jerome Walton, the Cubs outfielder whom I likely mailed several cards with SASE and likely never received a reply. Julio Franco and Eric Davis, Hector Villanueva and Dante Bichette. A slim Mark McGuire was a treat, as was A’s catcher Terry Steinbach. Jim Abbot, with his one hand was something to consider. After two more packs, I pulled another Ken Griffey Junior card, which made me realize why these cards were more valuable in 1991 than they are today. After three packs, I stopped and tucked the box away on my office shelf. I could open more, but why? I decided to save them for another day, ideally a day not going so well. A day where life seems complicated and where I’m not exactly the person that I probably dreamt about being. On one of those days, I’ll open another pack to remember what it felt like to be 13, back when I could read the fine print on the back with ease and dream about what I might someday become.

Originally written December 27th, 2022 If you’re seeking an overwhelming jolt of nostalgia, all you need to do is open a pack of old baseball cards.

Where

So where would you rather be, he said. If you didn’t have to live here, where would you live? If you had to choose a place, tell me where that would be. There are other places, after all, places that aren’t here. Surely you’ve been to some other places that you liked, so where would you go? If not here, where?

The question wasn’t meant to be difficult to answer. I’ve been to lots of nice places, so why wouldn’t I want to be in those places? This is what the casual dinner guest turned interrogator wondered, too. If not here, where? I was going to Beaver Creek the next day, a place I rather like. Would I prefer to be there? I wondered as he asked the question over and over.

I’ve been to sunny places where the air is dry and the clouds are few. I would like to live in those places, the inquisitive new friend assumed. I’ve been to places with seas and places with mountains. I’ve been to places where the mountains meet the sea. In fact, I’ve been to lots of these places. I’ve been fortunate to see more things than my parents have seen, and now that their eyesight is dwindling they really don’t like to see much of anything. They sit in the same place and they see the same things. Familiarity, it feels so boring. That’s why there must be someplace else. Something around the corner that hasn’t yet been seen, or somewhere that has already been seen but was so delightful and so inspiring that such a scene should be seen daily. That’s where I’d move, he figured.

But the more I thought and the more he pressed, the more I realized that being in a place where I have no history doesn’t matter to me. If I could move anywhere, where would that be? A place where I have no friends? A place where I have no acquaintances? A place where I don’t know what the things used to be called? A place where I don’t know where the old school is and where the new school is and where the first school was? Why would I want to live in a place where I don’t know

anything or anyone? Because it’s sunny or it’s hilly or it’s full of quaint shops and delicious restaurants? Do I need to move to this place?

Boredom, that’s what it is, he implied. Aren’t you bored? Don’t you wish for something new? Don’t you want to see different things every day when you wake up? Shouldn’t each day be a new adventure, a new page to turn? Why not explore the places you haven’t been? Ah, but his questioning is amiss and I know it and now it’s irritating me. I never said I didn’t want to explore the new places. I never said I didn’t want to go where no one knows my name. I didn’t say I was content to stop wondering what’s around that other corner. I only said I didn’t want to live there. Why would I want to live in a state of unfamiliarity? Why would I want to work hard to make something new feel comfortable, when I already have something comfortable here? I know it’s a Thursday and the Farmer’s Market is today. Why would I feel compelled to be in a place where the market is on Friday since there’s already another market here on Friday, albeit in Williams Bay?

I decided then that I see no point in leaving one place for another. I love this place, after all. I know this place. I know I was given a speeding ticket on Harris Road when I was 17 and the police officer was the father of an old classmate who didn’t care that I needed to get back to school to pick up my homework. Or, I should say, he knew that I was lying and that I was only speeding because why wouldn’t I? I knew the road well enough to know that cops never sat on it, except on that night. I want to live where I know each street. I want to live where I know what the sunset feels like in late August and how it feels so much different in late June. I want to know what the seasons are like and how a September day looks. I have no interest in living in another place, and so that’s what I told him.

Originally written September 1st, 2022. Everyone assumes the grass is greener somewhere else. I don’t think that’s true anymore.

Aspen Lakefront Realty

Isuppose my lifelong love of Aspen started last March when I visited for Spring Break. In Aspen, we capitalize Spring Break, because it matters just that much. And Aspen matters so much that I decided to indulge my lifelong love of this magical place by opening up a real estate office here to better serve my clients. I’m flat-brimming with joy to tell you that today, in an effort to capitalize on personal commission income to the joyful detriment of my client base, I have opened Aspen Lakefront Realty.

I remember skiing Ajax, the ice cold wind in my face and the lactic acid burning in my quads, thinking, “I’ll bet right now one of my customers from Lincoln Park is on this same hill.” What a rush I felt when I thought about how I might ask them to hire me to help them here in this place, this place where I can easily decipher between Snowmass and Aspen, and between Aspen and Basalt. How much more could I need to know? I wondered as I nibbled on my chicken sandwich at The White House Tavern, my brand new, extraordinarily tasseled hat from Kemo Sabe pulled low onto my forehead. There wouldn’t be more to know, I reasoned. This was it. Aspen Expert. My new title oozed confidence, and also delusion, but I focused on the confidence.

I scanned the downtown spaces for office inventory, knowing keenly well that in order to convince the locals, and my Chicago clients, that I was now their Aspen Expert I would need to have an office in town. I purchased a little shop on the Main Street, never minding the math behind the purchase and how many homes I’d have to sell in the Aspen Highlands to cover the mortgage. At that very moment a client of mine texted me to tell me that a new listing in Aspen was right next door to his Chicago neighbor’s house. My mind raced with the possibilities of endless commission from my brilliant business decision. It’s all about confidence, I told a new friend over morning coffee. He had

lived in Aspen for 18 years and worked at the ticket office, but someday he was going to buy a little condo in Basalt. My first lead!

One night I was at the office overseeing the painters who were artistically adding my interwoven initials to each corner of the conference room, when a customer walked in. My first walk in customer! I thought of the boots at Kemo Sabe that I had wanted to buy and knew that this sale would send me right back to the checkout line, my $2200 boots beautifully and effortless selling the new fact that I am so local. This new customer was a round faced woman with darting eyes, and in between suggesting that I was an opportunistic carpetbagger, she said she already owned a condo downtown Aspen that she uses in ski season, but she would be returning home to Palm Beach the next day and was merely stopping to ask if my painter was available to do a quick color change in her powder room.

I wanted to help her, I really did, but my newest business idea was spinning in my head. I found it hard to think about anything else. Palm Beach. The way her eyes lit up when she said that name, it was obvious then and there that Palm Beach would be the best next place for me. Geneva Lakefront Realty, check. Aspen Lakefront Realty, check. Palm Beach Lakefront Realty? Imagine the customers I could entangle. From the Beach to the Bay, that would be my new line. I could see it just as sure as it was Tuesday. I would buy a used, high mileage Ferrari California Convertible and the locals would embrace me as one of their own. Over morning coffee under the palms I would tell them how much I knew I loved Palm Beach from the first moment I ever thought of the potential commission on a $22M four bed five bath beachfront condo.

Originally written April 1st, 2023. It’s satire, but increasingly, so is the business of real estate.

A WORK OF ART?

DECIDING WHO INHERITS IT.

Our runabouts aren’t just boats—they’re 26', 430 horsepower heirlooms. So while choosing to enjoy your summers from the mahogany and chrome cockpit might be a no-brainer, let’s just say, we hope you only have one heir.

Benches

I’ve spent much of the last twenty years working on a theory that suggests the only people who sit on park benches are old men. I was driving a month ago and I saw an old man on a park bench in Williams Bay. He looked comfortable and contemplative, staring out to the great expanse of water that I could tell fit his eye. He was calm and lacked hurry, like he had nothing to do but the thing he was doing. And what he was doing, after all, was nothing. He was sitting and looking. Thinking and wondering. Content in his decision to do nothing but observe. Even though he looked comfortable and calm, I know well enough that park benches are not comfortable. They are hard and usually damp. And if not damp then the paint is peeling and it sticks to your white shorts. This is why I assumed that park benches are made for old men and old men only, since they don’t often wear white shorts and they are usually already uncomfortable so the hard bench suits them just fine. But then yesterday I noticed a middle aged couple sitting on a park bench doing the same thing. Just resting and reveling. I thought perhaps this was an anomaly, and clung tighter to my theory. I was barely five hundred feet down the road when I saw another bench sitter, this time a woman, perhaps sixty years of age, sitting as though she, too, were comfortable and deep in restful bliss. Odd, I thought. Until later down the road I saw still another couple, this pair younger than I am, sitting on their own green bench looking to the water, seemingly enjoying each other’s company. They weren’t fidgeting or looking at their phones. They were just sitting and taking in the scene like someone had put them up to it. In the span of a quarter mile the theory that I’ve been working on for years had been quashed. Maybe later today I’ll attempt to sit on a park bench and let you know how it goes. Odds are I’ll find it uncomfortable and restless, but until I try it I can’t be certain.

Originally written June 3rd, 2022. After this day, I did walk down and sit on a bench. I didn’t find it all that interesting.

LAKE GENEVA’S HOME TECHNOLOGY EXPERTS

BEAUTIFUL HOMES BEGIN HERE!

Whether you need a single piece of furniture, a room refresh, or are furnishing an entire home both inside and out, our designers are ready to help guide you through every step. Get expert advice in coordinating custom furniture, floor coverings, window treatments, lighting, and accessories to create a living space that’s perfectly tailored to you!

To the trade available.

Knock Knock

There’s a summer wind blowing through my open October window again. It shouldn’t be, but it is. And it’s not really blowing. It’s knocking. It’s pulsing. And the curtain is dancing and it might be annoying or it might be romantic, I can’t tell, and the door is shut, but it’s loud and it’s bothered. The last time the door acted like that was when I locked my blind dog outside of the room and she didn’t know exactly what she wanted but she knew she wanted to be inside of this room and not outside. The door is acting like that, but my dog is sleeping on the ground and she doesn’t even care. And I’m lying in bed with that summer breeze hitting my shoulders and I like it. I don’t care that it’s October and that the wind is telling me it’s about to get colder. In the distance there is lightning, but not here. In here, it’s just a normal night, and that wind is blowing through the window and trying to blow through that door but the door just isn’t having it.

Photo by Chriss Kayser

Photo by Aimee Mazzenga | Interior Design by North Shore Nest

Photo by Aimee Mazzenga | Interior Design by North Shore Nest

Photo by S Photography

For more than 15 years, Bella Tile and Stone has provided the finest tile and stone selection to the Geneva Lakes area. We offer complimentary professional design services in our state-of-the-art showroom. From porcelain and natural stone tile to handcrafted pieces designed by the best artisans in the trade, Bella Tile and Stone will guide you through your project from start to finish. Call today to schedule an appointment and experience the difference with us.

Entry level lakefront homes at Lake Geneva tend to have consistent attributes. The attributes we love are those perfect white piers, and that meandering shore path at the water’s edge. But there are other identifying traits that are less than ideal. Entry level homes are often quite tired and in need of significant upgrades. Or they’re found in locations that have gentrified more slowly than the rest of the lake.  This can make the hunt for entry level lakefront rather disappointing, and that’s understandable. Though increasingly rare,  some classic entry level

lakefront homes are in fine condition and are found in refined, upscale neighborhoods. Such is the case for this lovely lakefront cottage, located in Fontana’s Indian Hills where you’re a short walk from downtown Fontana’s lively summer scene. If there are blue chip locations for entry level homes, this is it. 556 Sauk Trail is available now, with occupancy in time to enjoy this summer from the front row. You’re going to love the views, the new oversized lakeside deck, the picture-perfect private pier, and the vintage charm of this classic lakefront home.

602 ABBEY RIDGE COURT, FONTANA

This stunning Abbey Ridge residence includes your very own Abbey Harbor boat slip. This immaculate unit has been thoroughly updated with attention paid to every last detail. From the modern kitchen to the great room with fireplace and vaulted ceilings, there's nothing here you won't love. The massive deck overlooks the private association pool and wooded hillside. When it's

time for boating, you're just a short stroll over the foot bridge that takes you to your slip on the western harbor wall. The AA slip (50a electric and storage box) is easy in/out and can accommodate a 44' boat. Slip includes Abbey Yacht Club membership and is walkable to Abbey Resort, Fontana Beach and restaurants. An unbelievable vacation home package in the heart of Fontana.

jessica@genevalakefrontrealty.com

1081 SOUTH LAKESHORE DR

DSMITH

N1963 BIRCHES DRIVE, LINN

Seldom is a triple lakefront lot with 300+/- feet of frontage available on the open market. If you’ve been searching for a rare parcel with spectacular width and stunning westerly sunset views, you’re in luck. This property in The Birches features an existing funicular, permitted three slip pier and a highly desirable table building site. In a market where our typical lakefront parcels measure around 100’, this is your best chance at securing a wide buildable site without splashing out on a legacy estate. Architectural opportunities abound with this extra-wide parcel, allowing a buyer to express a rare level of creativity.

David

262.745.1993

dave@genevalakefrontrealty.com

PIER 674

C. Curry, GRI

Photo was digitally enhanced

1.934 Acres   |  300 +/- Frontage   |  Asking $5,195,000

Calculations per MLS and known sales 1/1/10 through 5/4/2023. Lake Geneva lakefront single family, vacant land, and South Shore Club sales only. Information deemed reliable but not guaranteed. Sales totals include sales agents made while at their prior companies. Actual totals for top agent lakefront sales closed while the agent is at their current company would result in Sotheby’s Mahler being at $0,000,000 and Coldwell Banker top agent total would drop to $14,275.000.

David C. Curry

Geneva Lakefront Realty, LLC

Testimonials

"David is a knowledgeable and thoughtful guide, who knows how to skillfully navigate the unique needs of lakefront buyers and sellers."

– Todd, Chicago

"We have thoroughly enjoyed working with David. He found us a lake house that we would never have found on our own! We now consider him a friend. We also greatly appreciate his honesty (and sense of humor!)"

– Rich & Sue, Wheaton

DSMITH

In the summer of 2020, my wife and I, alongside our children, had the single greatest vacation of our lives, in a small airbnb near Lake Geneva. We fell in love with the lake, the architecture, the town, the people. We assumed that finding a permanent residence on the lake would be to subject ourselves to continual bidding wars, disappointment, exhaustion and more. A friend who had bought his home through David Curry was adamant that we meet. And he was right. David is hands down the single most talented broker we have ever encountered. He made every hour, every tour, every discussion a lively, enjoyable, fun learning experience. In spite of the market's relative insanity, we were insulated. David has an extraordinary instinct for market dynamics and timing; we never felt any pressure in spite of a red hot market until David's radar sensed we might lose an opportunity we loved. He cares for his clients in a manner that extends far beyond the transaction. We ultimately purchased the perfect home for us: ample room for hosting, a short walk into town to delight our children, and within a price range that wouldn't overwhelm us. To this day, I don't know how he did it. You'd be crazy to trust anyone else.

— SE, Chicago

GENEVA LAKE SAILING SCHOOL

Providing High Quality Sailing Instruction from Introduction to Sailing through Advanced Racing for Youth and Adults

• Summer Camps

• Adult Sailing Lessons

• Sailboat Charters

For more information or to register visit www.glss.org BECOME A PART OF THE TRADITION

Wealth with purpose

Working together to help you pursue what matters most

At the end of the day, it’s not just about wealth. It’s about what your wealth can accomplish—whether it’s buying a lake home, spending more time with your children and grandchildren, or leaving a legacy with philanthropic giving.

Together, we can help prepare your financial life for today, tomorrow and generations to come—so you can stay focused on what matters most, no matter what the markets are doing. That’s our focus as a local team with over 40 multi-generational professionals.

Call us today for a second opinion.

Frank Oddo Senior Vice President–Wealth Management frank.oddo@ubs.com

Atsaves/Oddo Financial Group UBS Financial Services Inc.

One North Wacker Drive Suite 3200 Chicago, IL 60606 312-525-4529

Relationships with $1 million or more are well-served by our capabilities.

*Over $4.6 billion in local assets under management.

Chris Atsaves, CFP ® Senior Vice President–Wealth Management chris.atsaves@ubs.com

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A strategic partner of The Burish Group UBS Financial Services Inc. 8020 Excelsior Drive, Suite 400 Madison, WI 53717 608-831-4282

*As of March 14, 2023. As a firm providing wealth management services to clients, UBS Financial Services Inc. offers investment advisory services in its capacity as an SECregistered investment adviser and brokerage services in its capacity as an SEC-registered broker-dealer. Investment advisory services and brokerage services are separate and distinct, differ in material ways and are governed by different laws and separate arrangements. It is important that you understand the ways in which we conduct business, and that you carefully read the agreements and disclosures that we provide to you about the products or services we offer. For more information, please review client relationship summary provided at ubs.com/relationshipsummary, or ask your UBS Financial Advisor for a copy. Certified Financial Planner Board of Standards, Inc. owns the certification marks CFP® , Certified finanCial PlannerTM and federally registered CFP (with flame design) in the US, which it awards to individuals who successfully complete CFP Board’s initial and ongoing certification requirements. © UBS 2023. All rights reserved. UBS Financial Services Inc. is a subsidiary of UBS AG. Member FINRA/

M A A

"One road leads home and a thousand roads lead into the wilderness."

– C.S. LEWIS