Washington Island is a small jewel of nature that lies seven miles out from the tip of the Door Peninsula, in the upper reaches of Lake Michigan. When I was growing up, we simply called it “the Island.” Almost one hundred years ago, when I was born, lush forests covered most of the Island. Five hundred families lived there, but there was no village. Our community was Lutheran, mostly Scandinavian transplants from Norway, Denmark, and Iceland.
I was baptized at my grandfather’s home in the early summer of 1924 and given the name Raymond Douglas Hagen. My mother, Agnes Christine Foss Hagen, had hoped for a girl, but she welcomed me, a healthy third boy, into the family. I joined a large clan that included three brothers, uncles and aunts,…