Monday, August 13, 2012

I've always been Historic, 'cuz I lived in a log cabin.


I always imagined that I could use this little place as a means to achieve the White House.

Because we all know that the American public approves any candidate raised in a log cabin.

This is actually the first family cabin; it's a little ways up the road from the current family cabin, located in the middle of the Mitten.  This is where I spent virtually every other weekend and two weeks a summer. This is the back of the cabin; the side that faces the road.


This is the front; this faces the river.


And this is the river as it runs past all the cabins on the road.  This picture is important in the history of my life; for I am standing at the very spot where I began being stung by a hive of wasps when I was very young.  It was an accident perpetuated from a frog-catching trip, and while by Brothers escaped, I did not.  I was stung upwards of 40 times.  And I lived to tell the tale.  But I still have a pathological terror of the flying stinging things in all their myriad shapes and sizes.

I hate the bees; I love the river.

If you go back to the first picture, you'll see another example of family legend; the three trees in the foreground.  My Father planted each tree upon the birth of his children; one for each son.

The cabin itself is quite tiny, of course; it was divided by what can only be called temporary walls; one space was living space and dining space and kitchen; the other two spaces were the bedrooms.  The "bathroom" was up the driveway near the road, and was as old school as you can imagine.  The kitchen did not include running water; there was a hand pump.  Hot water was created by heading the cold water on the stove, or on the wood furnace.

It was rustic, yes.  But the food tasted better, the water was sweet and cold, and the river sang that same lullaby it does today.

A few years ago, I was walking along the river and ran into the current owners; they knew who I was based only upon my resemblance to my Father; and they asked if I would like to look around inside.

Twist my arm.

It was different, and yet the same; the furniture was different, of course, but there were actually some of the original pieces still in evidence.  The old furnace was done, and they had put in running water.  The old bunk beds were gone...but there was one thing that went to my very core.

There were two paintings that hung in the boys' room; and I always wondered what happened to them.  My Grandmother (Dad's Mom) had apparently painted them.  They were of twin clowns, and they were hanging almost in same place I saw them when we left that cabin back in the mid-seventies.

And all the memories came flooding back.

To my credit, I managed to get outside and up the road before I began to cry.  But they were tears of wondrous reminiscence.

Kind of like this post.

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