The Cabin: A Place of Magic and Memories

My memories today are colored by childhood summer days spent at my Grandparent's cabin in the Arizona mountains, in a little place called Happy Jack.

It's cloudy today, and breezy and cool. At sunrise, the sun painted the clouds pink and orange, then disappeared entirely behind billowing gray clouds. Which is when my heart started to ache for my grandparents and the cabin, for the days when there was nothing more to do on a summer day except dream and play. When walking into the cabin midday meant the smell of dinner cooking. When being lazy meant watching the pine trees sway from a hammock tied beneath. When getting the mail was the best part of the day because it was a twenty minute walk down the driveway, up a hill and to what seemed like an endless row of metal mailboxes. When the greatest joy was finding a letter inside the mailbox for me. A handwritten letter from a friend back home. When rainy afternoons were best spent on the screened in porch watching the rain saturate the garden and soften the pine needles on the ground. When playing games meant playing cards and Mastermind. When reading a book wasn't just about reading, it was an experience. I didn't just read (every) summer about the city girl who finds refuge in Montana and meets the handsome rancher - I was her. And writing. Writing meant paper and a pencil, and dreams of becoming an author weren't smothered by time restraints, self-doubt, and a dead laptop battery.

There were the days when the monsoons kept up indoors and it meant curling up on the couch under the deer blanket and watching a movie like Guys and Dolls or Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Dinner was eaten in the afternoon and evenings were reserved for tea time (my favorite), hot chocolate and Dominos. And hearing the news meant Grandma was getting tea time ready as she watched the black and white kitchen TV. And opening up the double solid wood pantry doors was like opening the wardrobe door in Narnia. Because if there was a secret door to another world, it would most definitely have been in there.

The cabin was a place where dreaming was done while you were awake, and the world was wide open with nothing in front of you except forever. It was a place of magic - where pine trees smelled like chocolate, vanilla or strawberry, the floors creaked, laundry was hung outside to dry, and attics were filled with treasures. Where going to the store meant a day trip to Payson or Strawberry, and if you were lucky meant breakfast at a restaurant. Where walks in the forest were adventures, forts were built, mud pies were made, berries were picked, the creek was for swimming, church pews were orange and hymns were sung. Where cereals were meant to be mixed, Bible Studies were done before we were ever quite awake, crafts were created, and beds were made with electric blankets so you could leave the windows open to the night air.

Now the cabin has been sold and I can't bring myself to go back one last time. I say its because I don't have the time, but really I think it's because I don't want my memories to be replaced. What I remember most of the cabin are my grandparents, and the world they created there for me, my sisters and my cousins. It was a world free of responsibility, and full of safety, dreams, and rest. A place where all was right with the world. I know that going back just wouldn't be the same. I don't want to let the cabin go but I know that my memories will always be somewhere I can go on days like today - when the air blows cool on my skin, when the clouds make me want to pick up a book a read, and when the rain makes me want nothing more than to curl up under the deer blanket that is now my very own. I know I can always go back to the cabin, if only in my heart.

To my grandparents: you created magic all those summers, thank you :)