Home. A permanent place of residence especially as a member of a family or household. This is how I thought of the cabin. A place of family and memories. A place of permanence, strength, and shelter. As with all things in life, this was only partly true, for the only thing permanent is change. And change came in August 2021. The cabin was consumed by wildfire. Loss of the cabin was an emotional blow. A blow that caused me to reflect on the foundation of things. Things that we have – blessings, really. We have health, happiness, family, friends, and memories.
Memories. Of these, I have many.
Sitting on the deck in the early afternoon of a warm August day. A cool breeze blowing through the trees. Cars rushing by on the highway on their way to Tahoe or points east. The fresh and invigorating smell of the pine forest. The dappled rays of light penetrating down through the canopy of green branches. Firewood. The creaky, leaning, old building flexing under my feet. Cool water at the sink. The soot-stained stones of the fireplace. The old gas wall heater. Old copies of National Geographic magazines. The small humorous sketch books of skiing in the bathroom. The small shower. Coming down the steep stairs in the middle of the night in pitch blackness to pee. The barkless tree branch you grabbed as you climbed the stairs and the way it flexed with your weight.
I remember talking with Lee Ann in the kitchen while I helped her with some cooking chore. Playing dominoes with Ralph out on the deck. Working on the foundation for the deck extension along the front of the cabin. Painting windows and other household chores. I remember hikes around Echo Lake and taking the ferry boat back to the dock. Walks among the neighbor cabins and down by the stream. Talking about the different cabins we saw in the area. Lee Ann would bring me a drink out on the deck. A water glass full of ice and bourbon. I’d say, “holy cow, Lee Ann, I can’t drink all that!” And then I would, and then I’d get another. I remember Austin running around like a crazy boy, doing things grandma asked him not to do, and then getting a talking to. I remember the dogs. Dinner around the kitchen table. Sleeping upstairs. Slabbing the red fir that fell with Tommy and Ralph and Jon.
Deep memories that bring me comfort.
Goodbye old cabin. I loved you.
