I’m going to the cabin on Friday. Between now and then I have to be in Toronto again. Third time in as many weeks. Thank God for Porter. I’m not much of a big city person, largely because I suffer from caring too much about what people think of me, AND am too cheap to spend good money on fancy clothes. I just sank $1100 into pipe insulation and skirting for the cabin so I could sink into an old claw foot tub on a snowcovered rehabilitated clearcut in PEI. Now that’s money well spent. And I don’t expect the downtown people to understand.
The cabin is my rock. When I go there, I can see things in perspective. It’s not like the place never changes. In fact, it’s different every time. The trees are a little bigger. The grounds change from season to season, beautiful always. The kids across the road are a little older. But when I close my eyes, nestled in that tiny cedar cabin late at night, and feel the heat from the wood fire at my feet, the wind whistling outside, it’s like there is no time, and everything suddenly makes sense. Maybe that sounds crazy. If you think it is, you need to spend more time in the woods.
I like to go there too because the cabin is a point of reference on an increasingly busy life. The last time I was at Walden (in August), for example, I didn’t know what a Boler was. 200,000 bulbs seemed like a whole lot. And I was really worried about making ends meet. Now I’m still worried about the future, but am reasonable confident that I can pay the bills. At least until the Long Emergency.
This is Jasper’s fourth Fall trip with me to the cabin. He’s 6. We like to buy a big bag of cheesies, play checkers, and walk in the woods. It’s the best.
