When I dream

In the corner of my brain where I store my most precious memories there is a place I often visit. My imagining often begins on a dark, cool road where the path before me is only visible by the headlights of my parents van. Surrounding me on every side are numberless trees which reach heavenward to the billions of stars burning clearly in the night sky. Entering these mountains, you feel as if you are traveling out of the world created for you, into a magical, blissful world of which you are blessed to partake. Anticipation pulses through the caravan consisting of Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins as they automatically turn the familiar curves to the place they love. Even through the skeleton of the car the air changes, fresh, cool, the scent of pine and a fresh trail of dust lingers. As we near the exit a low chant begins among one of the more seasoned cousins "we're almost there...we're almost there..." This chant grows louder as the destination become closer until the squeals echo in the Forrest announcing our return to The Cabin.

Night and day at the cabin prove to be as different as...night and day. The days are filled with hours of playtime. Floating down the river on everything from inner tubes to kayaks, to plain old life preservers, and when i say old, I mean life jackets from the 1980's which could possibly be recalled. The peaceful serenity is broken by the sound of squealing cousins who's leg just brushed up against some big mamma's (sea weed). Fishing is a rite of passage for all who enter the cabin doors- as is gutting your own fish which grows worse once rigormortus has taken it's toll and the smelly trout you've been totting around in that walmart bag has formed a perfect "U" Don't forget to save the fish eyeballs for some brave soul. More important to some than the dead fish are the live frogs which have been known to frequent the bathtub. A small cemetery in the back marks the graves for several unfortunate frogs who have found their way into our unsympathetic clutches. Walks to the river were always a treat for everyone, especially the parents I'm sure after being couped up in the cabin with little froggies hopping around, toddlers braving the questionable staircase leading up to the loft, naughty little boys who carve their names in the wood- and especially poor Grandma and Grandpa who are frequently the victims of suicidal stuffed animals which mysteriously throw themselves off the balcony as grandparents and hormonal teens walk underneath.

The nights are filled with Playmill plays and rodeo races which one of the 80 of us will inevitably win. Poetic cowboys and dancing are a highlight from us city slickers looking for a good time. While the adults watch "Dave" or "The Saint" naughty little boys and girls peek through the cracks of the walls while they pretend to be nuzzled in bed. The fire crackles and discussions are had of the lives we share among each other. Stars are seen clearly in the night sky beyond the reach of the pine trees.

I miss those days which I have only shared once with my sweet husband. Someday I will return to The Cabin and I my life will once again be refreshed.