A Tiny Mountain Cabin
When I write in the Fall of the year, I go to a special place. I often go alone. I stay for one month. It is my haven, it is my retreat.
It is constructed of logs, hand cut and hewn in the seventeen hundreds, it is tiny and neat. The cabin sits in a green bowl tucked within lush golden mountains, it looks like a secret that has come to life. It was moved there in the 1970's to be a retired gentlemans fishing cabin. It sits empty now, except for the months of May and October. In May, a group of fishermen rent the cabin, in October, it is I that enjoys it's wealth.
The mornings there are cold that time of the year, a heavy veil of frosty mist hangs in the valley until around noon. I always have a fire blazing as I sip my coffee and consider my writing for that day. In the afternoons, when the sun has warmed the porch boards, I visit the grape arbor and pluck several deep purple concords from the vine that I will savor as i walk over the farm picking wild flowers from the pastures to place in Mason jars on the kitchen table. I always take several old dogs that romp along at my heels, their gray muzzles to the group, their tails high, excitement and contentment in their foggy eyes.
Town is not far, charming, but poor, as most old Appalachian mountain townships are by now. I go there to get supplies or to rummage through thrift shops and junk stores that dot the three shabby side streets. I find little treasures for a quarter, pretty tea cups or figurines of hound dogs or wild life. I always leave them on the mantle when I go, little junky blessings that will welcome me "home" when I return the next year.
When I write there at night, I sit by the fire, in an old, over stuffed arm chair, wearing flannel pj's and my old ratty brown cardigan . Time is lost to me as all manner of magical events occur between my hands and my heart. I meet characters that I fall in love with, and characters that terrify me. Sometimes my characters visit my dreams and either make sweet love to me or coldly betray me. Sometimes, my characters wake me up, when they do, I pour whiskey into a glass and sit with them, sipping the bitter brew for an hour before going back to bed. I would never do this at home. I don't drink.
hillbillycrone 51-55, F 2 Responses 0 May 12, 2011