The Cabin - Part 1

 

The Cabin

Part 1

A vagabond: A person who wanders from place to place without a home or job. Until a few hours ago – I was the poster child for this definition. I took up official residency in our family cabin less than 8 hours prior to this writing. For the summers at least...I am no longer homeless.

My dad and Uncle bought The Cabin many years ago. They later divided joint properties to prevent their surviving heirs from squabbling over who gets what upon the brothers deaths. I didn't understand it then – but I now recognize it as a smart move. It has been my experience that death brings out the worst in some folks. In the divvying of assets – The Cabin went to my dad. It was his wish that The Cabin stay in our family.

I spent the day cleaning and organizing...moving what little items I have with me from my living quarters trailer to The Cabin. It's oddly emotional at times. I have no problem tossing aside the various items used in the day to day business of a vacation rental: Brochures and pamphlets of local tourism sites – boxes of board games and shelves of books to entertain guests. Keychains stamped with "White Fir Retreat vacation rental" and dad's phone number. The same phone number I can not bring myself to remove from my contacts.

And then there's this bowl of plastic fruit. I hate that bowl of plastic fruit. Plastic pears – plums and peaches covered in what looks like dryer lint and makes my teeth hurt when I have to touch one of the creepy little fuzzy things. I do not understand plastic fruit. What the hell are you supposed to do with it? It has no earthly purpose other than to make my teeth hurt. I look forward to tossing it into the fire-pit...or perhaps .12 gauge target practice. Likely both.

Plastic fruit aside...other things bring on tidal waves of emotions. Things that whisper of my dads presence. The rustic hand rails he carved out of twisted thorn brush. The eclectic hanging lamp he pieced together out of cannibolize parts...all weirdly wired like no electrician ever – yet functions perfectly. The spinning poker-chip holder on the shelf – the same one my sister and I played with as kids. The sound of pine creek at full flow rushing and tumbling boulders in spring runoff. Dad and I standing at the creeks edge - shoulder to shoulder; talking of things...hard things. Things a kid really doesn't want to acknowledge. Someday – her dad would die. He would talk of his wish of leaving The Cabin to my sister and I in the hope that we would keep it in our family for generations to come.

I managed to get through the emotions AND disgusting, fuzzy plastic peaches as the sun dipped behind the mountain. It is eerily dark at night here at The Cabin and scary as hell. If it weren't for two dogs and a .380 body guard, I don't think I'd get much sleep. I suppose watching a "Search for Big-Foot" marathon at my moms house the night before wasn't the best choice of viewing options. The gentle rain sounds suspiciously like Big-Foot hairy fingers tapping on the windows. I'll try not to think about that right now as I get ready to spend my first night in a real bed that you don't have to crawl into and out of like a tree fort. If only that damn tapping would stop...good hell.