Summer Homes For City People 2022

3 2 3 B ro ad St re e t , S ui te 102 | Lake G e n eva, WI 531 47 | 26 2. 24 8.1 4 00 LakeGenevaArchitects.com

ANDREW MILLER 4

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28 There

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Dreaming

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The University of Chicago

Our Rink

The Same

The Limit

Cover art an original work by Neal Aspinall. Magazine title, Summer Homes For City People was borrowed from a 1898 real estate brochure called “The Story of Geneva Lake,” written by F.R. Chandler, under the auspices of the Lake Geneva Village Association.

This magazine was printed by David Curry of Geneva Lakefront Realty, LLC. Any questions relating to this magazine or to future advertising may be made directly to dave@genevalakefrontrealty.com. Reproducing any of this content without owner consent is prohibited.

R.I.P.

Challenged

Calm

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California Dreaming 46 Bridges 53 The Cottage 49 Herb's 55 Crypto Accepted 58 Something Else 61 Breathtaking 64 Expletives

This magazine is published for information and entertainment purposes only. Geneva Lakefront Realty LLC is not responsible for any claims, representations, or errors made by the publisher, author, or advertisers.

For specific details, please consult your attorney, accountant, or licensed Realtor. Geneva Lakefront Realty LLC is a fair housing broker and limited liability company in the state of Wisconsin. Listings are subject to prior sale or price change.

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STEPH MUSUR DESIGNS

www.stephmusur.com

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W

hen Charles Yerkes spent $400,000 on his Yerkes Observatory, there’s no doubt he already knew just how meaningful this facility would become to the community of Williams Bay. Iconic structures tend to be like that—they matter from the moment construction begins. The impact the University of Chicago and their Yerkes Observatory has made on this community is unavoidable. This year, along with an article to tell the story of what happened with that legacy property, I decided to give the observatory the cover of this magazine, and as always, Neil Aspinall succeeded in bringing his well-honed style to this observatory we all cherish.

I remember well the mixed responses I received when I first told people of my concept for Summer Homes For City People. Some were confused as to why I fancied myself a capable enough writer to print my own magazine (surprise, I don’t), and others were wondering why I’d print a glossy magazine just to showcase some of my property listings when a simple post card might do. Thirteen years later this magazine has become a meaningful component of a Lake Geneva summer, and I couldn’t be more proud to bring you this latest issue.

I was honored to play a lead role in the most important real estate stories of the past year. From brokering the University of Chicago sales to representing what is undoubtedly the premier property on the lake, this year has been marked by unexpected, but welcome successes. The sale of Glanworth Gardens this past winter elevated Lake Geneva’s lakefront market to an entirely different level, though saying that discounts the fact that we are already the preeminent vacation home market in the Midwest, and one of the elite markets in these United States. I finished 2021 with more than $138,000,000 in closed transactions, representing more lakefront buyers and sellers than any market participant. That tally, along with the Glanworth Gardens sale from earlier this year, has pushed my sales volume since 2010 to nearly $600,000,000. These sales position me as the top agent in this market by a significant distance, and I couldn’t be happier to make a living selling on the lake that I love.

I hope this new issue of Summer Homes For City People is to your liking, and wish you the absolute best summer imaginable. If you find yourself around these shores and in need of any real estate assistance, I’m here to help. The market is increasingly disjointed and confusing, but with me on your side, I promise I can help you make sense of it all.

David C. Curry Geneva Lakefront Realty, LLC 323 Broad St Suite 1S, Lake Geneva, WI 53147 262.245.9000 | dave@genevalakefrontrealty.com

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architecture + design | www.searlarch.com | @searllamasterhowe | chicago + madison

It was a privilege to work for you through the challenges of the last two years.

David C. Curry

$210+ Million TOTA L SA LES VOLUM E 2020/2021

$4+ Million

AVERAGE SA LES PRICE 2020 -2022

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M A RKETS S ERVED

$600+ Million TOTA L SA LES VOLUM E 2010 -2022

#1 Agent ANDREW MILLER

WA LWORTH COUN TY 2014, 2016 , 2017, 2018 , 2019, 2020, 2021 #1 ranking based on total transaction volume

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INTERIORS

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THINKERS, FEELERS, CRAFTERS OF HOME, HEARTH AND BEYOND.

We’re your partner in the journey of creating the most profound environment of your life.

We’re driven to create for, and with, our clients by a strong belief in our mantra: How you shape your space will shape your day.TM

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The University of Chicago

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T FIRST I THOUGHT MAYBE IT WAS just Monday. The world was resting, or asleep, or wishing to be unbothered by the thought of another week. Maybe it was less than wishing to be unbothered, maybe it was just the state of being uninspired. That’s an easy state in which to reside, especially when you’re on the heels of one holiday while staring down another.

Monday, I’ll give you. But today is Tuesday and it feels the same. Uninspired.

Maybe I’m the only one who feels this way. Maybe everyone else is so inspired that they’re doing other things this week. Maybe they’re traveling. Maybe they’re resting. I know nothing of rest. I can be still, that’s something I’ve done before. I can be motionless for actual minutes at a time, but that has nothing to do with rest. I hope everyone is resting this week, because I’m here at this office and I cannot rest. I have things on my mind. Jack Kerouac said we don’t all need to torture ourselves with endless thinking. I say, too late.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the University of Chicago and their Yerkes properties and the story behind it all. In the early part of 2018 the University announced that they’d be ceasing operations at their Yerkes Observatory and wished to sell the property. This news hit me hard. I remember the last time this sale was attempted, and I can still recall sitting in my old Williams Bay office with the representative for that New York developer. He shared with me his vision, and a pamphlet (I still have it on my shelf), on what Yerkes could become.

It was a large scale development with lakefront spa, houses, duplexes and condominiums. Inexplicably, there was a moat of sorts that wound through the property. I couldn’t get over the moat.

That development attempt died through a combination of a softening market and stiff resistance from the Village of Williams Bay, and I believe everyone, excepting our developer friend, was happy to see that development killed off. The University didn’t continue the sales process, and

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instead kept the property and left it to operate much as it had before. My son joined a local group that operated out of the Observatory, participating as a McQuown Scholar. He did it only because we had visions of elite college grandeur, and we thought that might look nice on an application. Years passed and the Observatory persisted as an iconic, but scientifically obsolete, blip on our otherwise deciduous skyline.

After learning of the 2018 announcement, I contacted the University to discuss a potential plan for the future of Yerkes. The ancillary tax keys, those properties that were used for staff housing, would be sold off individually, and quietly. The larger chunks of non-lakefront dirt would be sold in a similar manner, as zoned, as is. The 500+ feet of wooded lakefront would be sensitively divided into three large lakefront lots and sold to end users, thus returning the valuable portion of this property to the tax rolls. By monetizing the property in this manner, the University could save the one thing that mattered to the Village: those grounds and that Observatory. With the non-core property sold off, the University could donate the Observatory to a new group dedicated to preserving and operating this historically significant structure. In my pitch, I even stated that the University would be the “hero,” or the “savior,” which one I cannot recall, but the message and outcome would be obvious. The University of Chicago would achieve their desired sales price and preserve the Observatory.

From my perspective, the plan was perfect. I’d play a role in saving the Observatory, block the greater property from large-scale development (which I hate), and amass some sales volume along the way.

The last bit was important because my altruism only travels so far. I was wandering around the Louvre in May of 2018 when the University called to tell me they were initially on board with this concept.

What transpired next isn’t worth discussing in too much detail. We sold off the ancillary properties, as intended. Then we spent eighteen months or more trying to divide the lakefront into three

DSMITH

large parcels. The Village fought us at every turn.

We ultimately abandoned that plan and sold the lakefront property this month to a new buyer who will largely preserve it. Along the way YFF stepped in to take over the operations and restoration of the Observatory. The plan is now complete, even if the route had more dead ends and left turns than I envisioned.

But back to the University of Chicago being the hero of this story. From my first involvement with the University in the early spring of 2018 until this day, I have found their actions to be incredibly thoughtful and considerate. They understood what they had here. They understood what the Observatory meant to this area. They handled this entire process in a manner that proved their understanding. They could have put this entire property up for sale to the highest bidder, Williams Bay be damned. But they didn’t. They carefully maneuvered this complicated process, even while being lambasted by opposition

who repeatedly inferred that they had anything but noble intentions.

The University of Chicago built Yerkes Observatory in Williams Bay. They operated it for more than 120 years, which is an incredible feat that seems to be casually overlooked. The only reason this incredible structure has become an unmistakable landmark in Williams Bay is because of the University of Chicago. And now, the only reason Yerkes Observatory will remain for future generations is because of the University of Chicago. I’m grateful that they allowed me to assist in their property sales, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t proud to be chosen by them. More importantly, I hope I speak for the entire community when I say Thank You to the University of Chicago.

Originally written December 28th, 2021. The University of Chicago deserves our respect and appreciation for what they’ve given this community, so I wrote this reminder.

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LESTER CRISMAN 18

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Our Rink

N THE WINTER, THE TOWN FLOODED the gravel parking lot to give the locals a place to ice skate. Sure the lake was full of ice, but this rink was a nod to the fact that the lake ice was never entirely safe. The parking lot turned rink had a brown wooden shed at the one end where we’d sit to change into our skates, and even though it wasn’t heated, we’d go in there to warm up on the especially cold days. It was well known that the parking lot sloped from north to south, which caused the ice to be thicker on the south end and left the north end with barely enough ice to keep your skates from the gravel. If you were skating after a puck and forgot where you were, you’d catch a rock and fall, tearing your jacket and bruising your elbows in the process. We tried to stick to the south end of the rink where the better ice was, but our skates still suffered irreparable damage from all of that gravel. We didn’t mind dull skates, in fact, later in life when I skated on smooth ice with sharp skates I found it nearly impossible. As imperfect as this rink was, it suited our crude style of hockey just fine. The youngest kid’s boots marked the goals, the scraped back snow made the walls, and a puck shot out of the rink was usually lost even though we played with a “no lifting” rule. We played at night under the lights and we played during the day. We played when the ice was smooth and when the ice was bad, because none of us had skated indoors so we didn’t know what the ice was supposed to be like. We worked on our hockey stops and our puck handling, and we fancied ourselves real hockey players. We had shin guards, mostly leftover from soccer, and we had gloves and I think maybe one of the kids had a helmet that his mother made him wear. Pucks were hard to come by, and hockey tape was at a premium. One day I checked my friend Eric into the snow bank so hard that he quietly skated back to the brown shed, removed his skates, put on his boots, and walked up the hill to his house without saying a word. I felt terrible, but hockey can hurt feelings and we all knew this. After several years of this hockey playing, we all grew up and some of us moved away. The village stopped flooding our rink and now it’s just a place where some people park. But when I drive by it I only see it as a hockey rink, and I’m betting there are at least two dozen forty-something year olds who see it the same way.

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A WORK OF ART?

DECIDING WHO INHERITS IT.

Our runabouts aren’t just boats, they’re 26-foot, 430-horsepower heirlooms. So while choosing to enjoy your summers from the mahogany, chrome and hunter green cockpit might be a no-brainer, let’s just say, we hope you only have one heir. gra n dc ra f t .co m

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The Same

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SPENT A FEW DAYS THIS WEEK IN Beaver Creek. I enjoy Beaver Creek, largely because of its relatively unique mix of synthetic faux alpine style set into a slight draw of powerful mountains. The streams are full of simple minded trout, Gorsuch is full of thousand dollar windbreakers, and the restaurants serve two of my favorite things as one actual meal: melted cheese and bread. I first visited this place perhaps seven years ago, and with each visit, I become more familiar. The familiarity has not yet bred contempt, rather the expected known has become comforting.

Thin air be damned, I tend to enjoy myself in this place. Never mind that this past visit featured daily rain and one afternoon with temperatures in the low forties, spitting cold water all over the narrative that it is somehow always perfect in the mountains.

When it rains for several days straight in Lake Geneva, people threaten to move. When it rains in the mountains for several days straight, people just do mountain bike maintenance and iron out the brim in their hats.

I admit I do worry about things when I’m in the mountains. I worry that my eyes will reset, and I’ll become accustomed to the rocky horizon. I worry that a few days in that place will make my other place seem mundane. How can I see ten thousand foot snowy peaks in every direction for a spell and then return to this place where my mountain is Majestic, with its 180 feet of infamous soil content?

How can I sit poolside at the Bachelor Gulch Ritz and then return to sit patio-side at my home, where my view isn’t of mountains at all but of only soybeans or corn, depending on the year? How can I feel the powerful push of clear mountain water against my waders and aim a tiny caddis into the hungry view of a fat rainbow trout and then return to this desk where, today, with my window open, the only sound I hear is of the garbage trucks that frequent this alley?

I worry about the reintroduction to this place, and

I worry that the final visual blow of a sunset over a majestic range of mountains might just finish me off. I’ll be useless in this job then. I can’t sell something I don’t believe in. I’m not that good. I can’t pretend. I couldn’t ask people to spend their hard earned money in a place that I didn’t find interesting. It’s the handicap of my existence, or at least one of them. I just don’t have any interest in telling people things that aren’t true. And if my truth is in question, and my allegiance switches from this flat lake to those towering mountains, then I might as well call some mountain agent and ask if I can be their summer intern. I’ll trade in these white cotton shorts for some polyester mountain gear, I’ll start eating bison and bison only, and then I’ll lose a bunch of weight so I can be an appropriate and redeemable worshiper of the sun and the trees, bowing to the hills each night in reverence as I make superficial tech-bro conversation over that bun-less elk patty (elk on Thursdays, bison on the other days, duh).

But then something happens. I fly back to Wisconsin. I walk into my home that I love. I see my lawn and the trees that surround it and the absence of mountains and I don’t feel that anything is amiss. Then I drive to the lake, past it and around it. Next to it and above it. I see that old ski hill and think its height is appropriate. Who could want for anything more? Any taller and it would be garish.

Who needs such height when you have the rest of this? The lake sparkling and shimmering and filling to full with the weekend revelers who wish for nothing but a break from the mundane nature of our weekdays. I return to this place and I love it more than I did when I left. The mountains mean nothing to me. This lake means everything. Its grip on me remains and the more I see, the more I realize there is nothing that can interfere with that bond.

Originally written July 2nd, 2021. Beaver Creek is nice, but it’s no Lake Geneva.

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Sleepovers perfected

There

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T WAS ONCE A DREAM. IT WAS ONCE A FANTASY. It was once unattainable. Years later it became a possibility.

A stretch, but possible. After more years of work it became probable. Surprising, excitedly, unexpectedly, imminent. For a while it was overwhelming but then it wasn’t. Then it was just there.

Imperfectly perfect. Sitting. Waiting. Resting. Breaking. Rusting.

Peeling. Leaking. There. Always there.

It’s where we drove when things were good. Where we fled when things were bad. We slept there when things were normal. Or, a crisis drove us there. A celebration, too. Celebrating life and mourning death, all there. The pier to sit on and cry was the same pier we sat on to laugh. To scheme and to reflect. To plan and to pause. To sit with grandma and to hear her stories. To fish with grandpa and to hear his tales. The walleye was never supposed to be caught. It was the perch that he caught and the walleye ate the perch. The Zebco reels and the fish that couldn’t be unhooked.

Uncle Joe would come to cut the fish free, my slow walking savior in a silver minivan. It was that pier with the cottage up the lawn, hills carved by grandpa and hills mowed by dad. Lannon stone walls set by your brother when he was home from college. The cottage that leaked when it rained and the cottage where we roasted on those summer nights with our fans blowing and our windows open. The screens smelled like rusty earth, the nighttime sounds beyond that thin barrier, loud and joyful. The boats cruising by slowly through those black midnight waters. We remember it mostly because we desperately don’t want to forget it.

It’s just a cottage, after all. The appliances are old and the bathroom small. There’s no laundry because why bother? It’s small and it’s damp and it’s dark even when the sun is high overhead. The staircase is steep and it’s wobbly and if you didn’t duck you’d hit your head. Everyone hit their head. But the dining table is worn from life and the fishing poles are still strung. The boathouse has life jackets that barely float, but they suit the wintertime mice just fine. There’s nothing here that’s not meaningful, nothing that can be dismissed. Nothing that can be replaced. The cottage matters because life matters and it was the living that we did here. It wasn’t just a cottage. It was the place where we loved and cried and lived and died and we will never, ever forget it.

Originally written August 10th, 2021. I had just sold an old cottage that had been in the same family for generations and the finality of that sale weighed on me.

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KYLE MILLER 30

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Dreaming

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’M CURSED WITH A MALFUNCTIONING ability to dream. It wasn’t always this way, but it has been for most of my adult life, or at least that’s the way I remember it. I dream, even if less frequently than I would like to, but in all of my dreams I know I’m dreaming. It’s a dreadful affliction. Do you soar like a bird in your dreams? I don’t, because I know I’m not a bird and 42 year old men cannot fly. If I catch myself flying in a dream I immediately wake up to chastise my inner self for imagining such absurdity. In all of my life, the most realistic dream I ever had was one in which I was standing on the tennis courts in Williams Bay on a sunny spring day. I was dreaming this in winter, but I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and I felt alive with the optimism that only a warm spring day could offer. Though I felt that in my dream just as sure as it was real, I quickly woke up because even in my most potent dream I knew that I was dreaming of May in February and only a fool could entertain such folly.

In spite of this terminal condition, I find myself daydreaming of summer on this warmish week in late February. I haven’t been writing as much as I’d like to, because I have approximate one trillion deals under contract and most of them require considerable daily effort. If only the business of real estate was as easy as it looks on TV, or as easy as my friends and family think it must be. In spite of this constant effort and the bleak season I see outside this gigantic new office window, I anticipate the warmth of a Lake Geneva summer and I cannot wait for it. I’ve felt it so many times that I know exactly what it’s like, what it looks like and what it feels like and what it sounds like and to this day there is nothing that I find as comforting and familiar as an afternoon spent on this lake. I should note that I have zero interest in spending a summer afternoon on a boat on another lake. I would rather be strapped naked to a pontoon boat and paraded

through downtown on a summer weekend than find myself on some other dirty dishwater lake.

The issue is, that as soon as I settle in to a momentary daydream where I find myself on my boat under a cloudless July sky, I think about what my summer really looks like. It looks like that, sure, to some fleeting extent. But it mostly looks like this computer and this desk and this chair that I bought that, while the leather is divine, doesn’t even tilt back. What sort of desk chair doesn’t tilt?

And beyond that, do you know how hot it’s going to be when I’m driving in my entirely impractical vehicle, the one that doesn’t have air-conditioning aside from the little vents that I have to open to let some warm summer air blow in? Do you know how deflating it is to think about an afternoon of sunshine and water and Cobalt blue boats and then actually have to spend that afternoon inside sitting on a chair that won’t tilt? Of course you do, because you have to work, too. Working is such a terrible way to make a living.

But alas, I will take these little summer daydreams and use them to my advantage. I will use them as motivation. I’m going to force myself to enjoy this summer. Last summer was a whirlwind of dirty masks and anxious buyers. This summer is going to be different. I’m going give myself no option but to enjoy this place and indulge in the season it does best. Summer days cannot be stored in jars to be pulled from the cellar and opened on these February mornings. They spoil and expire and any one of them not enjoyed is a sinful waste. From this vantage point I can see summer and I can dream of it, but I also have no option but to weigh the practical application of that dream. Thankfully, this is one dream I don’t mind controlling, and control it I will.

Originally written February 25th, 2021. Spoiler: I didn’t control my summer at all.

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The Limit

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’VE REACHED IT. THE LIMIT. MY LIMIT. Our limit. The frost on my lawn and my breath stuck in the air—all of it is too much. Our taxes are going up, our stocks might be going down, and my son’s college application process was difficult because we decided that honesty would be the best policy (Why yes, Dartmouth, my son is super passionate about hieroglyphic prose).

It’s impossible to find someone to build a deck, or paint a fence, or renovate your master bathroom.

It’s nearly impossible to buy a boat. Want a garage?

See you next year, maybe. If we pay people to sit at home, or so our experiment goes, we’ll end up with a lot of people sitting at home. The world has gone mad and we’re leading the way, and there’s frost on my lawn and weeds poking up through my fresh asphalt and everything is terrible.

Is this a market for fancy rich folks who wish to flaunt their wealth? Not really, but I know some people think of this place in that way. I’ve come to view it all in a different light, especially now that insanity rules the day. Maybe people aren’t really up here to flaunt and flash and splash in our very nice fish bowl. Maybe this place isn’t about any of that. Maybe it’s just a place where people come to forget about all of the rest of their nonsense for a while. Maybe it’s just an afternoon, maybe it’s every weekend, or maybe, when Corona was especially pronounced, it was for the whole summer or a whole year. Maybe Lake Geneva isn’t here to indulge fancy people, maybe it’s just a place where people run to when times are weird or tough or otherwise uncomfortable. Maybe this is just a retreat from the tedious woes of a stressful life.

In that, it is indeed a treat. A place to run when life overwhelms. A place to hide when the cities feel unsafe. Yes, it’s a place to jump on your expensive boat and pull up to a lakeside restaurant and toast

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the trappings of your success, but maybe that pursuit isn’t looking to display wealth, it’s just looking to enjoy it. My dad is an interesting guy, and as we both age I continue to learn from him by watching what he does and how he does it and then often deciding that I might be better off doing things a slightly different way. My dad is old now, objectively so, and there’s a pronounced and dominant issue in his life. My dad spent his whole life worrying about money and about bills and about retirement and about responsibility, and about safety and in that, he has been a resounding success. But the problem with developing such a responsible mindset is that it’s unclear how one can ever transition from the harried pursuit to actual and pure rest. My dad has worked so hard for so long that he is incapable of enjoying the things he was working for. This is a common affliction, to be sure. But maybe the whole idea of this place is that we give the hard working among us a break from their labor. Maybe this place isn’t about fantasy and luxury, but instead it’s about nothing more than balance.

It’s easy to judge Lake Geneva based on its outward appearance. I have a distant family member who no longer visits this place because he deemed it a place too fancy for him. He disliked the displays of wealth and the finely manicured lawns and the low rumble of a wooden boat embarking on a sunset cruise. What he failed to understand is that the boats and the houses and the cars and the gardens aren’t necessarily the result of boastful pride.

They’re often times, rather simply, just the result of hard work and an important piece in the owner’s quest for an escape. Life is overwhelming, but it is better at the lake.

Originally written April 6th, 2021. COVID didn’t make Lake Geneva more popular, an overwhelming desire for normalcy did.

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R.I.P.

E

VERY PERSON SINCE THE BEGINNING of time has ended his or her life with one path or road that they traveled more than any other. There’s nothing that can be said to debate this. For me, at my age, there is a good chance I live considerably longer which would allow my most oft-traveled road to change. My son is 17 and so the road that will ultimately be his most traveled road is likely not yet determined. But in spite of the chance for my outcome to change over the duration of my life, it is likely that the road I will travel upon more than any other is already cemented. It’s Geneva Street in Williams Bay. I realized this yesterday.

About that road, though. It’s a nice enough road, I suppose. It entertains some slight hills, which always makes a road a bit better. It wraps past the lake, offering travelers a good view of the water and the opposing shorelines. For most of the length it endures some modest structures and overwhelming power lines, but then a ways later it pushes past the Yerkes Observatory entrance, offering just the slightest whisper of a view of that iconic structure. There’s no road in Williams Bay that can offer so much.

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It was the road I was driving on in my Saab 900 when I gawked past Cafe Calamari in 1996 and gently nudged the rear end of the car in front of me, forcing an odd buckle sort of crease into the hood of that old gunmetal gray sedan. It was the road I wasn’t allowed to cross on my bike when I was in grade school, able to get close to Doc’s but never close enough. It was the road that was home to that old gas station down by the lake, the one they turned into a sailboat rigging area, and by doing so instituted the first ever demolition of a gas station to make way for something that would somehow be even uglier. It was the road that I crossed to get that autograph from Harry Caray as he stumbled out of what I believe was then Hoopies. Cub’s Win! Holy Cow!, he wrote on the receipt I had from Doc’s after buying two egg rolls for lunch. It was 1993 and egg rolls were an exotic delicacy to kids from Williams Bay. The road in the winter isn’t much to consider. In the fall it has some beautiful maple trees that show off for the passersby. And in the summer it’s dark and deciduous and it only backs up when trying to navigate the poorly located boat launch. Each

month has its look, each season its particular mood. But the road shines especially bright in spring, when the trees of Geneva Street show off their blossoms. There are magnolias and red buds and crab apples of varying models and ages. There are pear trees and apple trees and if you time your visit just right you just might see all of these in bloom at once. It’s almost enough to distract from the overhead power lines that frame the street, and if you look only to the blossoms you’ll miss the cracked, uneven sidewalks.

While each tree is unique, there has been one crown jewel on this street for as long as I can remember. That prized tree is a magnolia of some sort on the corner of Geneva Street and Orchard.

The tree belonged to my aunt and uncle for a while when they owned that house. Each spring they’d be sure to visit while the tree was on full display. Before that it was owned by my old fourth grade teacher, and during her ownership the tree bloomed and bloomed, each spring at the same time, each display as showy as the last. The tree was consistent and talented. Every spring I’d drive by the tree and watch it go from its dormant winter position to its explosion of brilliance. I’d see the buds sprout and grow and I’d wait while I drove

by, each day looking forward to the blooms with excited anticipation.

This year was the same as the years before, and I drove by in the spring waiting for the show.

Winter turned to slushy spring and then it turned to warmish spring and then I waited some more. I expected the blooms to come, just as they always have, but each day the buds looked the same. I figured perhaps they were just a bit delayed. Maybe the winter was a touch too cold, and the sap was thicker than normal. Maybe something was off, but surely the blooms would come. Then I noticed something disconcerting: the Magnolia two corners east started to bloom even while Geneva Street’s prized bloomer was dormant. I feared the worst.

Today I must announce to you that this tree has died. It is no more. The blossoms that followed my drive for the entirety of my life will no longer bloom.

Spring will not be the same, no matter how hard the nearby trees try to make up for this absence. I’ll miss that old tree. My spring time drives along my most oft-traveled road will never be the same.

Originally written May 5th, 2021. That tree mattered, and now it’s gone.

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B U I L D I N G M E M O R I E S YO U C A N C O M E H O M E TO

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Challenged

I

N THE EARLY DAYS OF OUR TOWN there was this town and some other nearby towns.

None of the towns felt particularly connected, owed in large part to the unincorporated areas between Williams Bay and Lake Geneva and again between Fontana and Lake Geneva. The only two towns of importance that touched were Williams Bay and Fontana, but even that contiguousness was barely recognizable due to the large swaths of lakefront camps set up to assist city dwelling out of towners with their temporary weekend relaxation.

This easy harmony persisted for generations, with Williams Bay offering no challenge to Lake Geneva, and Lake Geneva viewing Williams Bay as no manner of threat. The schools in Williams Bay and Fontana were small, the schools in Lake Geneva were big, and so the sports teams didn’t interact very often and, if they did, it was usually a lopsided affair. Williams Bay once went years without a win for their hapless football team, as if such a drought of victory could ever be tolerated in the big city of Lake Geneva.

Just as sleepy Linn Township separated Williams Bay and Lake Geneva, Geneva Township separated parts of Lake Geneva from parts of other nearby towns. The township could not be confused for the city, just as the nearby City of Delavan shouldn’t be confused with the adjacent Town of Delavan.

Geneva Township was a township without much meaning, inhabiting some of the areas in-between.

Williams Bay never felt any unique beef with this township, even though the smallest piece of Williams Bay touched the smallest piece of Geneva Township. Williams Bay preferred to think of itself as being in between Fontana and Linn, rather than

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in between the Town of Walworth, the Town of Delavan and the Town of Geneva, all of which are also true.

One summer, this preferred belief of generations of Williams Bay residents was challenged by a decision made in the bowels of the building where the Town of Geneva holds their quorum. Instead of residing quietly and passively on the north side of Highway 50, the Town decided to press their boundary right up to the very near north edge of Williams Bay. The signs said nothing but Welcome To Geneva, as if anyone was visiting intentionally, and they were hammered into the ground within feet of the border with Williams Bay. Now a driver from Williams Bay, who for decades preferred to ignore the Town of Geneva, departs the village only to be assaulted by this Geneva sign. As a point of fact, boundaries are often respected until they are clearly defined, and then war often ensues.

The Town of Geneva is presumably waiting for Williams Bay’s counterstrike, but it’s uncertain whether Williams Bay will retaliate. On one hand, the sovereignty of Williams Bay has been challenged by its unimportant neighbor, and such a challenge should never be ignored. But on the other hand, to repudiate the move would be to admit the existence of the Township, which is also less than ideal. I would guess that something will happen, and until it does, neither town will feel quite right.

Originally written June 15th, 2021. This is satire, but the signs really did bother me. I should note that this article elicited quite a bit of outrage, presumably from people who like signs and dislike municipal controversies.

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VICTORIA MCHUGH PHOTOGRAPHY 42

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Calm

T

HERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH THE WAY A SUMMER DAY makes me feel. I’ve heard stories that some people tell, stories about lazy hazy days. The setting is always summer. Never has someone uttered anything about lazy, hazy days of winter, unless the person doing the uttering is in southern Florida, in which case any of their weather or seasonal opinions are meaningless. Summer days are lazy and hazy, people say, but I must admit I haven’t felt that. I’ve never experienced a lazy summer day. I’ve been lazy on a summer day, once in a great while, but it didn’t feel very good. That’s because I view summer as something that must be captured. I have no choice but to chase it down and strangle every last bit of life from it. A summer day is meant to be used, not felt.

This is why I cannot enjoy summer anymore, which is a real problem at this point in my life. How can a perfect summer day at the lake not be meant for action? Use, use, use, that’s what I have been programmed to do with summer. Make Hay When The Sun Shines, my dad would say in capital letters, and there’s no doubt that no other lesson has been so deeply and tragically ingrained in my soul.

Because of this mental disorder, I must find calm in the other seasons. Lake Geneva does summer exceptionally well, we all know this, and everyone also knows that spring is the absolute worst season. Spring is nice for four days in total, and pure misery for all of the other ones. The calendar says spring lasts for three months. Three petulant months. I’d rather have another month of winter, and I really don’t even like winter that much. Today, it’s fall. And not shiny, sparkly, dazzling fall: it’s dark fall. Sepia fall. Everything misty and everything muted, fall.

The Farmer’s Market is setting up across the street right now, but they know it, too. This isn’t farmer’s market fall. This is fireplace and chill, fall. This is work in an office and not feel compelled to do anything else, fall. This is the fall that allows rest. Summer spurs activity. Frantic, sunburned, motion. But on a day like this, it’s just a day. It’s cool. It’s rainy. It’s beautiful. The hushed tones suit me well, the slow motion of the piers being pulled and the leaves fluttering down to the shore path where they’ll wait for the weekend tramplers looks right by my eye.

Welcome to today, welcome to real fall. I see your summer day and raise you this day. Dull and damp, overwhelmed with calm.

Originally written October 28th, 2021. I know you like bright fall, but I like the cold, dark days of fall.

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Bridges

I

WAS DOWN AT THAT BRIDGE AGAIN. IT WAS DARK AND IT WAS rainy and that's why I was there. Young couples put on their prom best and stand on that bridge when the sky is bright with sunshine, but the fish only swim under the bridge when it’s dark and raining and I wanted to be ready. My flashlight didn’t work and the waves were intense, and the shoreline was battered and the bridge was slippery. I didn’t see any fish that night and the night that followed it was the same. Me and the bridge, both slippery and wet and there were no fish. I never stayed long, but I had to stay long enough for my eyes to adjust to the dark and it seemed that from the time my eyes adjusted to the time I was substantially wet from the rain and cold from the air, I had maybe twenty minutes in total to look. It went like that for years and the years turned into decades and it was just me and the bridge. Now I’m back at the bridge and it’s raining and it’s dark but I’m older and I’m careful not to slip. My flashlight is brighter but my eyes are dimmer, so I figure those even out and nothing much has changed, though I must admit the appeal of shivering in the dark has waned. If I could get down there again tomorrow I think I might see a fish or two. I haven’t seen one for years because the wind blows and the Bay churns and the fish hide in the waves, riding them from side to side and back and forth, like the sharks that swim amongst the surfers in the Pacific ocean.

The waves blow into the creek and under the bridge and I’m standing there but I can't get the flashlight to work and my eyes haven’t adjusted just yet. Tomorrow might be better, because I’ll bring a new flashlight and if tomorrow isn't better then I’ll just have to wait until next fall. After waiting this long, another year shouldn't matter. The bridge will still be there and I still won’t be able to see the fish.

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DSMITH SUMMER HOMES FOR CITY PEOPLE

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CARRIE KOSTER SUMMER HOMES FOR CITY PEOPLE

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The Cottage

T

HE FIRST TIME I EVER SAW THE COTTAGE I DON’T THINK I noticed it. I drove by it and kept driving, oblivious to the obsession that would soon find me. I had a habit of looking for worn out old houses back then, which was a nice little hobby, albeit one that distracted me from what I should have been doing. I should have been working harder to sell more houses, but instead I had this sense of duty to a concept that my father instilled in me. If you weren’t working hard, you weren’t working. The concept of working smart only came to me later in life. When I finally noticed this cottage I reached out to the owner via letter. Letter after letter, without reply. I upped my effort and sent offers. One after another, offers on the house. I wanted to buy it, I told the owner. I needed to buy it, I told myself. The owner would stop at the house and the footprints through the fresh white snow only went one way, from the car to the front door. For a week or more, only the one way steps. But the house had no heat, and the water was off, or so the town told me. How was that possible? The owner was a nice man, strange, but nice. I couldn’t understand what he did for a living, or where he did it, and when he told me what he did, it only left me more confused. I listened to him, anyway. The price on the cottage was $120,000. We had agreed, it seemed. But later, when the dust had settled the price went up. $180,000, not a penny more.

Time passed. I drove by the cottage wishing to own it, wondering why the owner wasn’t responding to me. The price, he told me, would be $220,000. Up modestly from before, but the market was increasing and the cottage was deteriorating.

Raccoons lived in there, the neighbor said. And when summer turned to fall and fall to winter, the car would come back and the footprints would only go one way. It was like this for weeks and I wondered if the old man had died. Years would pass and I never owned that cottage. One day, the old man’s family called to tell me that he had died. I wondered about his last days, if they were here or somewhere else, the footprints in the snow that only went one way finally made sense.

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Crypto Accepted

W

E’RE HAPPY TO ANNOUNCE THAT WE ARE NOW ACCEPTING Bitcoin For Payment, the sign read. We also accept Ethereum and Dogecoin and ADA and Shibu. In fact, we accept every coin that has ever been minted. US coins from the days before the first war, Canadian coins from before and after they declared their independence, which wasn’t very long ago, but it was before they trampled people in the streets for holding signs. Ancient coins, modern coins, bronze and silver and digital, we accept them all. We also take pixelated images of moneys, or apes, and GIFs, screenshot or otherwise, it’s your choice. We accept all art, modern or renaissance, crayon on lined 8.5 x 11”, it doesn’t matter. We’ll take baseball cards, basketball cards, football cards and we take those New Kids On The Block cards. Condition isn’t important, which is something that sets us apart from our competitors. You’ll find someone who will accept your Bitcoin to buy a house, but I’ll bet you can’t find someone who will take the combination of seven BTC, 38 ETH, 100 LTC, 119,333,901 SHIB and 3.5 ADA. No one has the financial sophistication that we do. If you’re interested in taking us up on this offer, the steps are incredibly simple. You’re so close to owning your vacation home, and we couldn’t be more excited! First, please find a house you like. The house can be large or small, expensive or cheap, and it could even be a condominium if you prefer. Once you find the house, please identify your preferred method of payment. Remember, it doesn’t matter if it’s seven unopened packs of 1986 Fleer, 4 BTC, two pixelated GIFs of a slice of toast popping out of a toaster, two buffalo nickels, one wheat penny, and 7,883,986 SHIB. Once you have your assets, you’ll want to liquidate those and wire the title company the USD. Once the wire clears their bank and the seller signs the paper deed, that’s it! Congratulations, you just bought yourself a vacation home. Your financial sophistication could not be more impressive, and we could not be more proud to be your cutting edge broker.

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Something Else

T

HERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU, SHE SAID. I KNOW, I said. The Johnson deal is in trouble. Not because it should be, but because it just is. The deal is killing me, I tell her. I can actually feel it shoving me closer to death. The buyer thinks the seller is up to something and the seller thinks the buyer is being disingenuous and with every imagined slight my life is pulsing closer to its end. With every Sunday morning phone call, and every text “UPDATE???” Are those multiple question marks absolutely necessary, I wonder. I wake up early thinking about this deal and I go to bed late thinking about it. I have no peace. The stress is too much. I don’t really need the money, not bad enough to trade actual years of my life for it. No, that’s not it, she says. It’s something else.

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SOLD DARMOUTH WOODS $3,200,000

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Breathtaking

D

O YOU KNOW WHAT THE WORD BREATHTAKING MEANS? It means to have your breath taken. Like if you get murdered, that’s a seriously breathtaking moment. Once I was installing siding on a little cottage I owned in Fontana, just a ways up from the lake but closer to the highway, really. I was standing on some brackets that I had screwed into the stucco wall of the cottage when the brackets gave way and I crashed onto the ground in a crumpled mess of breathlessness. My right hand landed on an old shingle with a nail sticking up and it stuck right into my palm. A week later my jaw was hurting, and, convinced I had tetanus, I drove to the hospital where they assured me I was only crazy. Two summers ago, I fell through my parents’ pier because my dad had a new pier built, but he insisted on making the plank sections himself, so he could save a small handful of pennies. My dad was a great fifth grade teacher but he is a terrible carpenter. I was walking from the boat to the shore at 11 pm after the Driehaus fireworks and in the blink of an eye I fell through the pier (the plank was too short and didn’t catch the stringer properly). My leg and chest badly bruised, I popped my head out of the water gasping for air. I had my breath taken, you might say. You know what doesn’t take my breath away? Seeing a tiny glimpse of water through bare winter trees from the deck of the crappy house that someone just listed. Words matter, even in listing descriptions.

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Expletives

M

AYBE FIFTEEN YEARS AGO I WAS SHOWING HOUSES TO A very nice couple who were referred to me by the pastor of a local church.

The pastor had officiated my wedding and was a wholly good and wise man whom I greatly respected. The couple was young and they were sweet and I was showing them a modest house on a highway in one of the towns not near the lake. This was before I was a lakefront expert, and I knew my role well so I stayed in my lane. Even in my youth, my self awareness limited the titles I was willing to crown myself with in print. We had toured the house and I was backing out of the driveway when I cracked the rear bumper of my silver BMW into a telephone pole that someone mischievously planted in the driveway while we were inside the little highway home. When my bumper hit the pole I involuntarily muttered an expletive, much to the wide-eyed horror of my innocent customers. I don’t believe I showed them anything after that day, and still think about it quite often. The good news is that telephone poles are rarely, if ever, placed in the middle of lakefront driveways, and now that I’m a lakefront expert, I leave the highway homes to the highway home experts, mostly out of respect.

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California Dreaming

I

RATHER LIKE THE CLASSIC SONG California Dreaming, written and recorded by The Mamas And The Papas, or maybe it was just by that one lady and her husband, the guy that left his wife for the younger singer lady, right before the younger singer lady left that guy for the other guy in the band. I think the other guy was a Canadian, so whatever he knew of California likely came to him only through delayed rumor. Even so, the song is terrific and serves as a remarkably potent example of the way California views the country and the way the country views California. I’d be safe and warm if I were in LA, the song chides. Generations of children from the Midwest and Northeast grew up assuming that statement was true.

When I was a child, I didn’t know much about California. I only knew an uncle of mine lived there, and he had some modest fame generated by some inventions that he patented while working for Mattel, or maybe another company. The hidden hinge that allowed Barbie Dolls to be pliable without exposed screws and brackets, I think. Anyway, that was my fleeting childhood exposure to California.

Then, when I was a little bit older, my dad took me to California on a trip that he repeated three times in total, once with me and each of my brothers. The goal of the trip was to teach us that wisdom was the most important thing. If Solomon asked for wisdom, then I should, too. I remember that, so the trip was a success. But I also remember renting an aquablue Geo Metro and driving great uncomfortable distances across that large state. I remember watching the Bulls vs Lakers championship game on the tube television in our Motel 6 room, waking up later that night to the gross sounds and troubling sight of my dad coughing and spitting from the side of his bed. He was chewing glass, he said. And he was spitting it in the way that you would spit if you, too, were chewing glass. Except there was no glass and he was only dreaming. It was a difficult night for the both of us.

Later, the Red Hot Chili Peppers sang of Californication, and I was intrigued by the concept.

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California, a wild and reckless place filled with movie stars and athletes and beaches and mountains. If you like Lake Geneva when it’s 75 and sunny with low humidity, a client of mine tells me often, then you should move to LA. Los Angeles, a place where dreams come true and the sun shines and if you’re lucky you might catch a glimpse of a movie star walking into Starbucks. Imagine such a place. Pop Culture is created and fine-tuned there before it’s broadcast through the rest of the country for our enjoyment, or at least bemusement. Los Angeles, now that’s a real place. Midwestern children have, for generations, believed in their inferiority when compared to that magical dreamland.

And so with that understood, I took my family to California last weekend. We wanted to see a show at the Hollywood Palladium, and we needed to fly in and out of LAX. Being aware of my keen distaste for both congestion and for the vitriol I spew when in traffic in a foreign land, I decided against a car rental and in favor of Uber. That meant I needed to be close enough to LA to keep my Uber charges somewhat reasonable. We stayed at Shutters in Santa Monica, and as a spoiler, “reasonable Uber charges” in LA means $184 for the one way from SM to Hollywood. Nice.

The details of the weekend don’t matter so much.

It was foggy and cold. The street life was a bit more animated than I’m accustomed to, so the walking about town wasn’t that much fun. With poor weather, our beach vacation was spoiled so I rented a car to drive to Malibu, which I found to be exceptionally meh. Thousand Oaks looked like any other suburb. The dried out hillsides were fine, if you’re into that sort of thing. I think my family liked the concert on Saturday and I very much liked my breakfasts at Coast, so in that, the weekend was fine. We flew home late Monday and quickly melted into the comfortable surroundings of home.

The next morning, I drove my daughter to school.

It was sunny and crisp, as November mornings can be, and we chatted about the day ahead. My

KYLE MILLER

daughter is 15, and presumably wrapped up in all of the things that 15 year old girls find interesting.

But on that normal November morning she looked to the distant farmer’s field where the wound up bales of spent corn stalks littered the frosty field and she said, “That’s beautiful." She didn’t say that once while walking near the Pacific Ocean. She didn’t say that while dipping through the hills of Malibu.

She said it when driving down a mundane rural

road on a boring November morning in Walworth Township, WI. If I do nothing else in this life worth remembering or applauding, please remember that I raised a daughter who doesn’t spend any of her time California dreaming, and that should be enough.

Originally written November 11th, 2021. I’m not really into California, thankfully, neither is my daughter.

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Herb's

T

HE GAS STATION IN OUR TOWN IS CALLED HERB’S. I SHOULD say, it was called Herb’s. It might have been called something else even when I thought it was called Herb's, but Herb's is what I called it, anyway.

A quarter’s worth of gas sounds like something an old timer would talk about, but it was the amount of gas I’d pump when I drove my tractor up to Herb’s. If you are new to our town, you don’t know about Herb’s. You don’t know that’s what you’re supposed to call that place. You think it’s called something else, and you drive by it every day not knowing what you’re supposed to know. You don’t remember when Herb fixed my tractor muffler and the outcome was some sort of tall and wide custom muffler that looked like it should have been on a large farm tractor. Except it was on my lawn tractor, the muffler big and pronounced and brownish red from rust. Imagine not knowing about that muffler and that tractor. I’ll bet you don’t even know that it was orange and that it had to crank a dozen or more times before it begrudgingly caught a spark. It dawned on me just now that my own children don’t know about this, and yet, here I am, expecting newcomers to know what we call that gas station? How could they be expected to know when I didn’t even tell my own flesh and blood about this place. A quarter’s worth of gas sounds like it was pumped a long time ago but it was the 1990s. That’s hardly a decade or two, or maybe three ago. If I moved to another town, I’d find a gas station and I’d drive my car there in the mornings and I’d pump my gas. I’d buy a paper on the weekend and once in a while my wife would ask me to pick up something from the store to complete a dinner she was making, and I’d stop at the station and hope they had something that was a close enough match. I would live in that town and call the gas station what the sign read, but it would probably always bother me that I don’t know what the gas station used to be. I’d be the person who didn’t know what the other people called the place. I’d be one of them. Imagine living in a place where you didn’t know what the places used to be called.

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Testimonials "It was great to partner with you on this acquisition.

I've worked with many real estate agents over the years, and I can honestly say that you were the most active, knowledgeable, and engaged person a transaction as anyone I have interacted with in the past. Your creative conversations with me and your subsequent intervention with the seller were in valuable to bringing the deal over the finish line. I truly appreciate your partnership in this transaction."

– Ron, Chicago

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"Thank you for helping us once again navigate the ever evolving Lake Geneva housing market. Your unparalleled knowledge of the area home sales helped us, two rookies to the area, secure our first home at below market price. Nine wonderful years later, that same knowledge helped us maximize the current market opportunity on the sale of our home while simultaneously identifying a unique and highly sought after property purchase in an extremely competitive environment. Your concern for and loyalty to your clients shows through at every turn but what we appreciate most is the friendship we’ve built with you over the last decade."

– Mike and Jen, Action Heights

"It’s funny, I’ve thought about how difficult it was for us, especially my parents, to make the decision to sell the house and, at the same time, just how fortunate we were to have everything go as smoothly as it did. That is a testament to who you are David and how you handled everything related to our lakefront transaction. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that I made the call and met you back in June! You are the most professional, honest, respectful, thoughtful and genuine agent I’ve ever met. Your gift to our family was nothing short of perfect. We opened it together and none of us could speak for a few minutes- very touching. To say that we were pleased with your services is an understatement. David, you are a class act and clearly deserve any and all accolades that come your way as the leader in your industry at the lake."

"Dave, you did a super job pulling this deal together. Scott was a great referral. My entire family is appreciative of the professional manner in which this project was conducted.

Thanks again."

– Michael, Hinsdale "I won’t spam you, but I just had to tell you I’m on my new lakefront deck now and I’m overwhelmed with the beauty of this view. Finding fix-ups and changes to the house needed over time, but oh this location. Thank you for helping us find it!"

– Martha, Chicago

– Wendy, Illinois

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RusseLl J. DePietro, Architect

262.728.9300 www.depietrodesign.com

russ@depietrodesign.com Licensed in Wisconsin & Illinois

SOLD ANDREW MILLER SUMMER HOMES FOR CITY PEOPLE

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HIS UNIQUE FOUR UNIT CONDOMINIUM presents a remarkable opportunity in the heart of Lake Geneva. This lake view building is home to four spacious condos, each with character of its own. Historic charm is combined with modern updates throughout all four floors with separate entries adding to the individuality.

The upper units are two story condos and three of the four have incredible lake views. Convenient laundry areas and ample parking. Just steps away from Lake Geneva Beach, downtown shops and restaurants. With potential to retain tenants or convert, there are endless options to consider in this highly desired location, including lucrative short term rental possibilities. $1.65MM

1019 WEST MAIN STREET, LAKE GENEVA

jessica@genevalakefrontrealty.com

LIVE YOUR BEST (LAKE) LIFE COBALT R33

www.GordysBoats.com

Boat Sales • Cobalt Boat Rentals/Boat Club • Boat House Bar/Restaurant • Pro Shop with Gordy Gear Ski/Board/Surf School • Wakeboard/Surf Camp • SUP Rentals • Fuel • Boat Service & Storage

WISCONSIN: Fontana (262) 275.1563 • Oconomowoc (262) 354.0522 ILLINOIS: Chicago (708) 683.9232 • Fox Lake (847) 629.4300

Wood.

That burns.

lumberjax.com

(815) 337-1451

Fabricators of Custom Canvas Covers BOAT COVERS · PORCH CURTAINS · MARINE UPHOLSTERY PIER CANOPY SALES & SERVICE · CANVAS SEWING · CONTRACT SEWING

639 Kenosha Street - Walworth across from Sentry Foods

262.275.5067

Lynch GM Superstore 2300 Browns Lake Drive Burlington, WI 53105 262.757.2977

Lynch Chevrolet of Kenosha 10901 75th Street Kenosha, WI 53142 262.764.3970

Lynch Buick GMC of West Bend 275 S. Main Street West Bend, WI 53095 262.384.4848

Lynch CDJR of Mukwonago 282 East Wolf Run Mukwonago, WI 53149 262.642.4700

Lynch Chevrolet of Mukwonago 280 East Wolf Run Mukwonago, WI 53149 262.363.4061

Lynch Ford of Mukwonago 1015 Main St. Mukwonago, WI 53149 800.606.3085

Lynch Truck Center 29000 Sharon Ln. Waterford, WI 53185 262.514.4000

Lynch Chicago 7335 W 100th Pl. Bridgeview, IL 60455 708.233.1112

www.ShopLynch.com

DSMITH SUMMER HOMES FOR CITY PEOPLE

91

Specializing in the repair and restoration of classic wooden boats.

Come see our new Showroom in Lake Geneva, across from the Next Door Pub. Over 40 antique and classic boats in inventory.

262-248-BOAT

334 Interchange N. Lake Geneva, WI 53147

www.BergersenBoatCo.com

The Class of the 1950's The Luxury of the 2020's Order your new custom wood boat today!

262-248-BOAT

334 Interchange N. Lake Geneva, WI 53147

www.ShepherdBoatCo.com

FREAETES

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LAKE GENEVA WINDOW & DOOR

WINDOWS PATIO DOORS ENTRY DOORS

PHANTOM SCREENS EMTEK HARDWARE

Stay Safe On The Lake...

Stay Safe on the Lake...

For Everyone’s Sake

For Boating Laws and Safety Info, visit www.WaterSafetyPatrol.org

Since 1977 preserving and restoring the lands and waters of Walworth County and beyond.

GenevaLakeConservancy.org

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