“Where the coffee’s hot, the lakes are cold, and all the children are above average.” — Serving the Chain since 1897.
Tuesday, June 23, 2026 · June 23 Edition · column, recipe, history, and the stars
The Klatch
From the corner table: the potluck that ran out of bars at 6:40, the solstice light worth saving for February, and the patch behind the house that will not quit.
Read the full story →Living · From Eunice’s Kitchen
The bar that travels, keeps, and disappears first. Doubles cleanly; the Ladies’ Aid will run out regardless.
Heat the oven to 350°. Melt one stick of butter in a 9×13 pan, right in the pan, the way your mother did. Over the butter, in this order and no other: one and a half cups graham crumbs, one cup chocolate chips, one cup butterscotch chips, one cup coconut, one cup chopped nuts if the crowd allows nuts, and over all of it one can of sweetened condensed milk poured slow and even.
Do not stir. Stirring is for people who don’t trust the layers. Bake 25 to 30 minutes, until the edges go gold. Cool all the way — all the way, Eunice means it — before you cut, or you’ll have seven-layer rubble, which still tastes fine but cannot be set on a plate at the potluck. Cut small. They always go.
Living · Fifty Years Ago
From the issue of June 1976: the dock at the public landing was rebuilt by volunteers over one long Saturday, a fish fry followed, and the paper recorded that “the new dock is straight, which the old dock had not been since Eisenhower.” The bicentennial parade ran the length of Main — the same length it runs now — and a column noted, fifty years before the question would be tabled for the eleventh time, that “talk has resumed of a fourth stop sign at Birch and Second.” Some things take.
Living · Stars Over the Chain
As read by Sigrid Pelto, from the end of her dock on Loon Lake — usually close.
Cancer season opens with the solstice — the longest light of the whole year, and we get every minute of it up here. The Moon favors small, tended things this week: the loon chicks, a parade finally had, the slow climb toward the Fourth. Mars is restless for the holiday already, three weeks early, like a boy who has spotted the sparklers.
You marched, or wanted to. Good. The solstice says lead with warmth this week, not heat — the Fourth will give you all the noise you need.
Loon chicks ride low on the water; slow your boat and your week to match. You already have what’s worth carrying.
Rhubarb and invitations both overflow. Hand a bag of one and a polite no to the other; you needn’t attend everything.
It’s your season, and the longest light pours out just for you. Say yes to one thing for the Fourth and no to two. Even the host deserves a lawn chair.
You held a corner of something this week — a banner, a friend, a hard week. The Sun, your ruler, sees it. Hold on a little longer.
The bear got past the cooler again. Order the locking lid you’ve been meaning to. Some problems are solved with hardware, not worry.
Thirty-seven neighbors rode a flatbed and the scales of the town tipped, gently, toward kindness. Add your small weight to that side this week.
Something swam across the dark water and changed the evening. Watch the deep things from shore a while before you wade after them.
The Fourth runs one street, and you want more horizon than that. Plan the August trip now; march this week anyway. A wanderer still needs a hometown.
Gordy Lindstrom kept half the Chain running for thirty-five years and asked little. Build quietly this week, the way he did. It lasts.
You made your peace with the strange and the new long before the parade. Be the bridge again this week. Someone always needs one.
Loon chicks, warm water, the long soft light — your favorite weather. Sit in this gentle middle of the year without bracing for what’s next. Float.