When we arrived, my dad would go through his routines, turning the well pump on, twisting the old fuses into their sockets and giving power to the place. My mom opening windows to air out that faint mustiness that hung in the air from being closed for long periods of time. There was an old toy box to the right when you entered. In the box were old Archie comic books, coloring books and loose crayons to keep us occupied on a potential rainy day. The old thick wallpaper hung heavy on the walls adorned with sailboats, some of the adhesive, worn, through the years and weather, caused a corner or two to curl where the seams met. There was a sectional couch to the left and on the right was a pull out couch. Straight ahead a television on the left, a dinette on the right. The kitchen was a refrigerator, kitchen sink and stove, in that order from left to right at the far wall. There was a hallway, a doorway next to the television, in the center a bathroom, and to the right and left of that a bedroom on each side. The cabin was small, but extremely useful.
More than just the layout of the cabin hangs heavily in my heart, what I really remember was swimming, enjoying time with family, and huge campfires by our cousin Tony. It was learning that the smell of gas and oil from a chainsaw to make a vision across the street from our cabin a reality for our cousin's own piece of paradise, that helped make these trips so worthwhile, such a crucial part that helped build my travel bug. Tag, hide and seek, swimming across the river to the other side, which seemed miles away, were all memories that will stay with me forever.
In 1999, after our first two children settled, and we were all somewhat adjusted, I decided it was time to revisit the cabin. I thought that maybe I could recreate some of those memories with them. We loaded up our Suburban, Barney, our son and daughter, and with only the memory on how to get there in my head, we traveled north to the cabin.
The trip didn't seem as difficult as it did when I was a passenger. It seemed quick. We arrived. Nothing seemed the same. The memories floated around in my head, but there was something different. The beach that my cousin's once kept cleaned up at the bottom of their hill on their lot had been overrun with seaweed, because their own children were adults and they didn't spend as much time traveling there as they once did. We made the best of it. We had a small campfire, cooking hot dogs on an open fire and then settled in for the night. The cabin had some small changes to it, small enough for the common visitor not to notice, but I did, it didn't feel the same. We left the next day. I was slightly deflated that I couldn't recreate the times I had there growing up, but at least I was able to tell the stories of my own youth, and I think that may have been enough.
Time, it's a funny thing, it ages us, it takes a toll on everyone, including those places we once enjoyed. What time can't do is take away those memories that we hold dear. It shifts perspective, views, creates a different mindset that once may have been. That trip was okay, but seemed lonely, because everyone had aged, my sister's, cousin's, my family were living life, heading down their own paths, and correlation of our paths crossing was scant. It was a good time with my own family, but a sad reality that once time has taken a leap forward, nothing can bring it back around and recreate those minutes, those moments, or those days.
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