The Cabin

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
Forward: Last week I was invited to spend some time at my sister-in-law, Diane's cabin. As I turned the corner and the cabin came into view, it was as though I had been there before in a dream. My dream took place three years ago and I recorded it in what I call my other journal. I'm like a packrat; I bury things that I'm not quite ready to get rid of but have no plans of sharing with others. I wanted to remember the details of that dream so I flew out to Fremont Island and dug up the plastic container that housed those pages of my experiences and dreams.

My son-in-law, Wade, told me that chronically depressed people are people who live in the past and anxiety prone people are those who constantly worry and fret over the future. He didn't have a definition for people who are chronic dreamers. Whether by curse or by blessing, I am of that category. I tell my family that I have a special cream I call my dream cream that I rub on my face and hands each night before falling asleep.

Prologue: It was the winter of our lives. I say winter because of the grey in our hair. Well, mostly the grey in my hair. How we came to live in this high mountain cabin or where it is located is a mystery to me. But a dream doesn't cry out for details of the past. You know how dreams are . . .

The Dream: Our cabin is so remote that our mail is dropped in by plane once every two weeks. But that is okay. We have no utility bills to pay because we have no utilities.  Our mail consists of letters from our children and an occasional catalogue informing us of all that we are missing in the latest fashions. Our provisions are meager but our garden supplemented by wild game keeps us a little larger around the middle than is needful.

We work hard but we work at what brings us pleasure. When the day is done we also rest hard. Our pastime is reading good books; taking long walks and sitting on the cabin porch watching the breeze disturb the aspen leaves of the trees that surround our little home.

After supper we sit on the porch and talk about what we did today although we did it together. We discuss the book we took turns reading out loud to one another. As we crawl between the sheets that sun-dried on the clothesline she draws her knee up over me and rests her arm on my chest. I fall asleep listening to her little puffs of restful breathing.

At breakfast we talk about going to town. Town is a two day horseback ride. We go four or five times a year and spend a week in a local motel as we gather supplies, call the children who catch us up on their busy lives and always remind us of how crazy we are. I suppose we are crazy. By the end of the week we are lonesome for home and the beauties of nature that can only be appreciated when you sit still long enough to watch an ant crawl across the porch or a robin build a nest one twig at a time.

The hurry has been taken out of this phase of our lives. We move in a simple, natural way just like the garden by our cabin that only responds to the laws of nature. Just try to force a seed to spout and you'll soon discover how little power you really have. We are powerless to turn back the clock of time or see clearly what the future holds. With no one to keep the roof repaired our little cabin in the mountains will one day be gone just as each of us will be gone. But today we still repair the roof and plant the garden. We have agreed that should I die first, she will not try to stay here alone. Should she die first, I know I will not stay here alone. It wouldn't be the same without her. The snow wouldn't be as white in winter. The trees wouldn't be as green in spring. And the nights would be too lonely without her arm across my chest and the sound of her peaceful breathing.

We are told that the pine beetles are infesting and killing the trees but there will still be trees when we are gone. We see more contrails from jet aircraft crossing the blue sky carrying busy travelers to their destinations but the wind always blows them away. Occasionally we hear the report of a distant rifle from a big game hunt. But it is a rare occasion in deed for us to have an unexpected dinner guest. If someone finds us, they are most likely lost. She feeds them, makes them comfortable for the night and after a hearty breakfast, we send them on their way. They are usually in a hurry to get back to their real lives. They will miss the robin as she builds her nest for her future family. They will miss the golden eagle that soars above the ridge that overlooks our cabin each morning.  They may miss these things but they won't long for them. They will be content to lean back in a swivel chair and for a brief moment look up at a painting of a majestic scene framed and hanging on an office wall.

How fortunate they are to be where they want to be, doing what they want to do. How blessed I feel to be here where the stars are bright and the sky is blue; where she and I communicate more with a momentary glance than most say with a mouthful of words.