When you hear the name Glensheen, thoughts of the historic estate—the 27,000 square-foot mansion in Duluth, Minnesota, set on Lake Superior waterfront property—likely spring to mind. Maybe you think of the groomed lawns and gardens near the tennis court, the sundial in the heart of the formal garden, and the fountain of solid marble once delivered by horse-drawn carriage. Or maybe you recall the opulent place’s dark side, an intruder committing the June 1977 murders by smothering the 83-year-old heiress in her bed with a satin pillow and bludgeoning her nurse to death on the staircase with a candlestick.
All those facts surrounding the extravagant home made it famous, but when I hear the name of the place, I think of only one thing: shoes.
In the summer of 2009, Husband and I packed up the Volvo station wagon and took our girls, ages 5, 7, and 9 at the time, to the North Shore for one overnight sandwiched between two days of excursions. I think we made the jaunt to Betty’s Pies on highway 61, and I’m pretty sure we visited the Enger Tower Park and Gardens and the Split Rock lighthouse in Two Harbors as well. But the memories are hazier than the ones of Glensheen Mansion.
The skies over the grand estate the day of our visit resembled those in the brochure; tufts of white dotted a turquoise expanse, the weather perfectly curated for us at seventy-five degrees and sunny. We entered the residence, paid our admission fees, and queued up for the guided tour. Parents might dread bringing children of a tender age to view the Jacobean-style masterpiece completed in 1908, but our girls, falling on the bookish side of the hyperactive/sedentary spectrum, managed the tour of the 39-room house with remarkable patience.
After the walk-through, we sauntered outdoors to view the gardens’ artistic designs created with impeccable care. Somewhere in the fruits, flowers, and vegetables, though, I knew my Japanese-style platform flip-flops (with a thatched footbed), although cute, were the wrong choice for our meandering.
“Anyone wanna run back to the car with me?” I said. “I have to change my shoes.”
Our oldest, Flicka, volunteered to join me for the trek to the station wagon to swap out stylish for no-nonsense. My girl and I ditched Husband and the other two in the manicured lettuces section and clasped hands for our stroll to the parking lot.
The mansion lay ahead of us in all its glory, the slight hilliness of the terrain adding to the allure. A stone parapet hemmed the terrace overlooking the gardens, and if this were my house, I would wander out each evening to admire the—
In my distraction, I misstepped. My heel came off the edge of my sandal, and I toppled to the ground.
“Mama, are you okay?” Flicka said, gazing down at me, my legs splayed on the grass. The warmth of the day found its way to my face. A quick assessment showed me the outer strap of my right flip-flop had loosened in the tumble.
A grounds security team member hustled over to me. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
I pasted on a smile. “I’m totally fine.”
He didn’t seem to believe me, though, and extended a beefy hand. I forced out a laugh and stood without his assistance. “Thank you. I’m good. Really.”
He nodded, still eyeing me, suspicion marking his features. Maybe lawsuits zipped through his brain as he watched me leave the scene.
Flicka and I set off, but another two steps in, down I went again. Seriously? Heat shot up from my core. What was with these ridiculous hills? And this sorry excuse for sandals?
Security Guy dashed over again. “Can I help you, ma’am?” But he was already trying to help me.
“I’m okay.” I shook him off and jumped to my feet to prove my stability. He looked like he planned to circle me in his arms if I should attempt another move. I patted the air with open palms. “I’m fine,” I said, my tone sterner than intended.
Sensing Security Guy’s stare, I kicked off my flip-flops, scooped them up, and stalked barefoot in the direction of the car, Flicka jogging to keep up with me. A trash can stood at the entrance to the parking lot, and I dropped my shoes in.
Ah, the Glensheen Mansion. If I ever wrote a review of that place, I’d keep it simple. I’d say the security guards are helpful, and the place is much prettier in sturdy footwear. And you should go. You should definitely go.
I’m wearing the infamous flip-flops in this picture. Because it makes sense to wear that kind of footwear while hiking.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.