Cabin Fever

I have adored cabins ever since as a youngster, I cut out a photo from a magazine of a rustic cabin in the Adirondacks with snowshoes hung on the porch. Adirondacks! Such a beautiful word! and snow was something seen only on the distant peak of Mt. Huila. In 1984, a trip through the High County of North Carolina led to a For Rent sign: "FOR RENT: cabin." There was an arrow pointing up a gravel road with the impressive name of Highway 1111. A small wooden bridge was like a border guard, only the appreciative allowed. I knew when I saw it that this place had a story. It turned out to be perfect for me. The owner said it had once been a post office in Tennessee and some folks dismantled it to bring over the mountains to Vilas, North Carolina, home to Frasier fir tree farms. However, it had been a two storey structure and the Some Folks hadn't brought a blueprint. Consequently, it was now a one storey. When I walked in I could feel the energy of pioneer letters, lovelorn letters, happy news letters, and sympathy cards. I knew "snowed in" was a real possibility. There was a 3x5 growing space which you can see from the photo was good enough for me. During the winter, my tabletop pines and hemlocks could be seen by visitors passing far below on the main road, 105. People coming to ski, to attend madrigal dinners, Appalachian alums of various fields, would have the greeting of the cabin to welcome them. Letters have been such a big part of my life. First there were Uncle Henry's and Aunt Stella's. Then letters put on the Friday mailboat from Liberia; college campus notes with no stamps required; ultimately, the same day delivery @earthlink.net. Here is Uncle Henry, my dad's little brother, quoting a poem of my Aunt Stella's, my mom's big sister shortly before he passed away.

ROME

The streets sink drowned in shadows

Night claims all

Save one sun-drenched spot

One weathered wall.

Where last the sunlight gleams

Like burnished gold

In simple lines the passer-by

Is told,

The young English poet, John Keats

Died here,

And nothing more is written

Save the year.

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The first poem I wrote at the cabin was enclosed in a letter, "Chance of Snow." To me, cabin fever does not mean stir crazy from staying in too long but instead, the delirium at the opportunity to nest with stationery and pen, paints and, these days, restickable glue stick.

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...may the blessings of autumn pumpkins and nostalgia trips be yours...