The Cabin

The small structure, originally built as an overnight lodge for skeet shooting enthusiasts has been what my family and I affectionately call “the cabin,” for 21 years now. The cabin means nature, relaxation, almost obnoxious amounts of family time, kayaking, the general store, and Uncle Jim. The saggy wood cabin painted burnt red with white trimming stands connected to the new larger than life deck, across the lawn from ‘the shed,’ ‘shed junior,’ and up the driveway from the ‘rock wall’ (all crucial items of cabin culture.) My mom, dad, brother and I went to the cabin in May for what was likely the only time this summer we’d all be there, and likely the only time I’d go there at all this summer.


Attendance at the cabin has dropped steeply over the years. With the addition of the Manhattan apartment, and our generally busier lifestyle, the cabin is like an old stuffed animal. It has millions of memories, induces a warm feeling in the stomach depths, and although we will never cease to love it, we’re too old to sleep with it anymore. Yet, the cabin is a wondrous place. There is a tiny wood burning stove inside creating a musty fiery smell in the winter. It stinks up anything that comes in its path and seeps in like a delicious skunk spray. In the fall, spring and, summer we have campfires (in a pit which my brother and I built a decade ago) with firewood which has been cut and collected from my chainsaw loving father and brother. We spend time reading, talking, and fishing—insane rarities at home.
This visit to the cabin is typical, a satisfying and comforting feeling. It’s almost always the same at the cabin.

My brother, Dad and I clean up branches which had come down in the winter ice storm, while my mom cleans and prepares meals inside. By the end of the work day my legs look as though I fought a hardcore cat and lost, I am pooped but content. I go to bed around 10 and wake up at 8.30 when my dad walks out of his room flipping up every shade, creating a quick blinding explosion of morning light on my brother and my sensitive sleepy eyes. We roll around in our former bunk beds, (now separate on different sides of the living room/kitchen area) for a few minutes before accepting it is indeed morning, waking up early is just another cabin staple. Next step- the general store.

For quite sometime we referred to the general store as the “new general store.” The ‘old’ general store was closer and even more townie; it was tiny and everything seemed fresh but old and dusty at the same time. It was run by a chubby, bearded middle-aged man named Bob. He lived above the store, and ran the store for longer than I’ve been alive. But one day about ten years ago my Dad informed us that Uncle Jim (dad's brother who lives near the cabin,) had just called with news that Bob had tried to commit suicide. It turned out the general store was experiencing all sorts of economic turmoil and poor Bob couldn’t deal. The news saddened us, and worse was seeing the abandoned general store the next time we went up. A staple of our youth was empty, a depressed little store with a seemingly dark future, in the middle of Becket. It was a blow to my naïve mind that even in the magical land of ‘the cabin’ bad things could happen. The general store remains dark and idle after a decade, and the ‘new’ general store a town over thrives next to the fancy new post office they put in last year.

It took time, but we have come to accept and love the new general, and look forward to stopping in. A visit to ‘the general’ while at the cabin is as necessary as a morning pee; you just have to do it. We go to see the typical disappointing array of general store pastries and coffee, at 9.30 we are far too late to get the good stuff. We arrive back at the cabin and eat eggs my mom cooks while staring at the luscious hilly view from the deck.

Uncle Jim stops by while we’re eating; he is in his normal chatty state. It still irks me that he’s 62; he seems younger, and just straight up not in his sixties. He informs us of some local gossip, and how his business is going; tells us about his kid’s family and his new car. I contemplate about his being sixty-something and my cousin having a full blown family. When he leaves, I finish my breakfast, clean and pack up because I’m leaving soon to visit my roommate.

My dad loads up my windshield with Rainex because ‘It’s supposed to rain, and some people are idiots when they drive in the rain.” He tells me numerous times to be careful, all of which I shrug off while secretly adoring how much my parents care about me. I say bye to close another time at the cabin and drive off thinking of the Food Network worthy s'mores I made the previous night during a starry fire. Until next time, my quaint little friend.