The three-day weekend became a six-day weekend.

It started as a Friday-to-Sunday fishing event, but the first guys will arrive this year on Tuesday and farewells will be Sunday.  A semblance of golf will be played Wednesday, Thursday and Friday – if the bodies hold up.  Saturday will be a day to rejuvenate muscles, watch college football and plop several racks of ribs on the fire pit.  Every evening the ritual is the same: sit around the fire ring and embellish the same stories that have been repeated year after year.

Stories like the year we had fishing competition only to discover one guy was considering buying frozen fish from the local grocery and entering them.  Some stories are sorta true, some half true.  Never heard one that is truly true.  But everybody hurts every year from laughing.  That’s the truth.

The tie that binds this group is Eau Claire High School in Columbia, S.C.  All guys are 1965 high school grads – five from EC and one a stray from Dentsville HS who qualified for admission by marrying an EC girl.  That stray is Smit.  The others in the group are aptly called Redman, Bud Lite, Weeble, Crampey and yours truly Little Richard. The names kinda indicate the fun we’ve been having the past 20 years at The Cabin.  Once a year, first week in November, be there.

The origin of our get-together reaches back to the late 1990’s.  Another high school classmate, Danny Mann, would meet me at The Cabin for some fishing back then.  Bud Lite and Redman joined us about a year later as the group began to grow.  Then Danny died suddenly in 2004.  From that year forward, we called our annual gathering the Danny Mann Classic (DMC).  Each year, the extra long weekend concludes Sunday morning on the waterfront as everybody hits a golf ball into the lake in memory of our good friend Danny.

Arrival at a DMC is like kids on Christmas morning.  Everybody brings something for everybody else – monogrammed DMC hats, shirts, golf towels, golf balls.  And snacks, goodness, enough snacks to stock a Kroger – even though everybody is well aware of the annual menu lineup.

Wednesday dinner is a low country boil; Thursday, smoked beer-butt chicken and sausage; Friday, thick steaks on the fire pit; and Saturday, fire pit ribs compliments of Redman, our master chef.  One guy suggested quiche but he hasn’t been seen since. Breakfasts are obscenely large, and evening desserts are aplenty, highlighted by Smit’s personal, popular concoction:  Krispy Kreme doughnuts topped with Neopolitan ice cream, M&M’s, marshmallows, syrupy walnuts, chocolate syrup, a red cherry, whipped cream and finished off with colorful sprinkles.  True.

Despite all of this healthy eating, we all turned 70 last year.  Amazing, but most of us have been friends for more than 60 of those years, stretching back to elementary school.  The bonds have been strengthened by significant events such as life-threatening cancer battles, major heart surgery, the loss of parents, the birth of children and the birth of grandchildren – not to mention multiple replacements of hips, shoulders and knees.  Orthopedic surgeons appreciate this group.

Highlights of these DMC gatherings are many, but a couple are noteworthy.  Danny Mann’s 84-year-old dad joined us in 2006.  Said he wanted to see first-hand why Danny enjoyed the gathering so much.  He shared several stories, which made him a natural for the group. He once built a gyrocopter by hand, crashed it on its maiden flight, but survived to tell about it.  We always called him Gyro after that, and we all attended Gyro’s funeral a couple years later.

There’s also the continuing saga about The Four Lasses, a singing group in our high school senior class.  Every time we try to remember the names of the Four Lasses, we come up with five or six names.  The closest we can come to a resolution is that there must have been five or six Four Lasses.  Anyway, we agree to think about it for another year.  We’ll figure it out.

And, there’s the case of the disappearing new pontoon.  It was safely tied up in its boathouse slip all day but then it was gone early that evening.  Just gone.  Vanished. Just before calling law enforcement, one of the guys spotted it with binoculars in the corner of a nearby cove.  An attempted theft or a prank?  Little doubt in my mind that a couple of the guys conspired with a neighbor named Bill.  But, two years later, nobody is near a confession, and everybody is a laughing suspect.

As our age continues to progress (i.e. we’re getting old), we seem to appreciate these outings – and each other – even more.  Not coincidentally, one of the guys suggested last year that perhaps it would be wise to start meeting twice a year.  So, the Mini DMC was born.

It will start as a three-day weekend.

 

A new adventure at The Cabin.  As if I need one.

Nearby neighbors kept mentioning the big buck they see occasionally roaming near The Cabin.  One sighting described the buck as “about a ten-pointer, maybe more; huge for this area.”  I kept an eye out for the prized deer, rolling slowly along the long driveway when arriving and departing.  I would never want to bullseye the big buck but surely would like to see it.

Deer are not necessarily plentiful on the seven-acre plot, but it’s not unusual to see them, especially does and their underlings munching acorns near the circle driveway.  They also like early morning dessert near the courtyard usually consisting of the prettiest flowers planted by my WW.  But seeing the 10-pointer was a challenge – still is.  But I think I’m getting closer.

My friend Ronnie has 300 or so acres in a speck of Alabama called Pine Apple. His farm house and land make up his Little Piece of Heaven.  Three RDH guys (me, namesake Dalton and namesake Trey) are fortunate to get an invitation each year to deer hunt on this oasis, which has to be considered the deer capital of the South.  I do not hunt; I’m the cook.  But Dalton, and especially Trey, have learned immensely from Mr. Ronnie about the right way to hunt – respect for the land, respect for wildlife and utmost respect for safety.

On my most recent trip to Pine Apple, Ronnie enlightened me on his new practice – utilizing field cameras to track deer on his acreage.  We stopped deep in the woods where he ejected a tiny SIM card from a small camouflaged camera that was strapped to the trunk of a tree.  He then inserted the card into a device and plugged the device into his I-phone.  Presto, pictures from the night before suddenly appeared, some showing deer enjoying a midnight snack on one of his fields.  Time, date and temperature on each picture.  He had me.  Or, this field camera thing had me.

So, one trip later to Bass Pro Shop for a camera and attachments, and only one question remained:  just how fast could I get to The Cabin?  It didn’t take long.

Once at The Cabin, in a rare act of patience, I actually read the instructions for setting up the camera.  I wanted to get this right.  I programmed it to snap one picture every two seconds for eight seconds each time movement was detected.  In other words, I would get four pictures every time something moves within camera range.  My confidence level about this programming stuff was not very high, so I decided an overnight test was in order.

The test included strapping the camera to a porch post so it would pick up any movement in the courtyard.  The next morning, I was amazed that I had programmed the camera perfectly.  I also was amazed to get 112 pictures of my oscillating sprinkler.  Each time the water spray would enter the range of the camera . . . presto, four pictures . . . then four more . . . then four more.  At least I knew the settings on the camera were correct.  And, I knew the sprinkler system was working well, too.

I did not flinch at that minor distraction.  Next step was to strap the camera to a tree in the woods.  A gorge running through the property seemed like a logical place – surely deer would want to shelter there.  And, they did (two pictures above).  Another placement another night snapped an unsuspecting red tail fox (upper photo, right).  And then there are squirrels, lots of squirrels, who often trigger the camera.  One obviously was curious of that thing strapped to his tree (upper photo, left) – that’s his eye getting an up-close look.

So the field camera has been tons of fun with good results.  A favorite series of pictures shows a hawk landing, pouncing on a dead squirrel and flying away with the squirrel clearly visible in his claws.  Other animals now on file include lots of deer including a young spike, raccoons, a variety of birds, a disgustingly fat possum, and a cat – not sure if it is a bobcat or wildcat or just an ugly domestic kitty.

But, no big buck.  Not yet.

 

 

She’s been called Mama, Nene, Annette, Granny, GG … and, perhaps most accurately, The Warden.

This lady who has never really looked out for herself seems always to be looking out for everybody else.  Especially family, which includes her eight sisters and one brother – of whom only four still survive.  But Mama Huguley is still kicking … and kicking hard.  She intentionally has slowed down some, mostly so she can watch tennis and golf on TV, but her mind has not skipped a beat.

As Mama, she kept an eagle eye on her brood of five as they were growing up.  Once marched into the principal’s office at Eau Claire High School to take sides with one of her children in a dispute with a sassy teacher.  The principal got the point. At the end of the school year, the teacher got the boot.  When that little episode was over, Mama didn’t mention it again.  No need to talk it up or brag or spread the word. Why bother; just get on with life.

As Mama, she was firm – perhaps putting it lightly.  Her children didn’t necessarily appreciate her bluntness as teenagers, but they always understood the difference between right and wrong.  It was kinda like, “Let me set you straight on something …” and then came the lesson.  The unadulterated truth.  The gospel.  Not surprising that her five kids stayed on the straight and narrow.  Still do.

As Nene, the name she was called by her Greek sisters, she excelled in school, studied nursing, and even won a silver cup as a ping pong champion.  She, her brother and seven sisters survived a devastating tornado in 1938 that wiped out the family grocery store on Rutledge Avenue in Charleston, S.C.  Her parents, the first Greek immigrants to be married in Charleston – as evidenced by “No. 1” on their marriage license – didn’t flinch.  Rousso’s Grocery was rebuilt replete with living quarters above for the large family.

As Nene, she must have inherited her grit from her Dad, called Pappoo by the huge extended family.  Once a week, Pappoo would take his small boat out into the Atlantic Ocean, alone, to fish – at age 81.  Then he would go back to Rutledge Avenue, swig his daily toddy and take his nap.

As Annette, in her late teens she ran around with Johnny Huguley, who lived a block away on Race Street.  They married, thought it would be clever to name their boys Tom, Dick and Harry, which they did, although they had Susie and Debbie before finally getting Harry.

As Annette, she held the family together as my Dad worked hard and long to provide for the family of seven.  No complaints from her when they moved from Charleston to Florida, back to Charleston, then to Columbia for more moves from Mountain Drive to Lincoln Street to Park Street to Highlawn Avenue (later named Margrave Road) and then to Ridgeway.  Two bedrooms, one bathroom, family of seven … no complaints.  Cramped but happy times – youth baseball and softball and basketball teams, church on Sundays, rides back to Charleston, trips to the beach, ice cream cones on the weekends and a big Christmas every year.  We certainly had everything we needed and didn’t know what we didn’t have.

As Granny, she adores her grandchildren. As GG, she adores her great grandchildren.  She regularly rotates family pictures on her den shelves, careful to treat everybody the same.  It would not be like her to have a favorite.  She will tell you that each one is her favorite.  She loves her own suite at daughter Debbie’s home in Blythewood, and she still drives – sometimes long distances.  Debbie and hubby Joe, by the way, have free passes to Heaven for – 25 years ago – eliminating questions about the future before they arise for the family.

And, The Warden?  Well, some friends of her children stuck that label on her many years ago.  Her disciplinarian nature is the source.  In earlier years she could be fairly direct, let’s say, so there could be no mistaking her message.  Like, don’t mess with my kids.  Or, do as I say do, not as I do. Or, when I say curfew is 11 o’clock, I mean 11 o’clock.  Plain and simple.  I think my mother sorta likes being called The Warden.

So, on January 13, 2018, The Warden celebrated her 91st birthday.  During a telephone call, she told me she feels pretty good for someone who’s beginning to get old.  She asked about her grandchildren and great grandchildren – always deflecting attention away from herself.  Then she told me she would be making another drive from Blythewood to Charleston soon to take her 99-year-old sister to a doctor’s appointment.  There would not be even an attempt to talk her out of it.

After all, she said, she is eight years younger than her sister.  And, at 91 she’s still kicking hard.

 

Neah’s team really didn’t have much hope of winning … but don’t dare tell 12-year-olds anything like that. Her basketball team had only six players. The other team had plenty of substitutes and used a full-court press the whole game.  Yes, the opponents were bigger and faster.  But they were about to be thrown into a hornets nest, and they didn’t know what they were in for.

The game was played at a dot on the Georgia map called Ball Ground.  More specifically, at the City Gym. The Ball Ground City Gym was probably built a thousand years ago.  Some parents watching the game attended school nearby and played in the same gym.  After all these years, the basketball floor is perfect and the bleachers, totally wooden, are as solid as one large slab of granite.  Aluminum, as in material used for bleachers in most modern gyms today, had not been invented when Ball Ground City Gym was constructed.

But, Ball Ground the town is booming.  It has earned its own exit off I-575 and is only 19 miles from the Woodstock exit.  I know the distance because I had to get there in record time after spending a couple of hours with two other granddaughters in Roswell.  Kaisa (5) and Annika (2) were pumped about Gram (aka WW) and Grandad coming at 5 o’clock to babysit, and we were equally excited.  After a large pizza – half cheese and half pepperoni as requested by K and A via video text earlier in the day – it was wild playtime in the basement followed by the dreaded bedtime. In between was a secret piece of chocolate, but “we can’t tell my mom and dad” per Kaisa.

WW volunteered to put the two girls down and encouraged me not to be late for Neah’s game.  That’s when I realized you cannot get to Ball Ground from Roswell.  At least not in one hour on a Friday evening.  So I left a little early after a couple of hugs and kisses (not from WW).  With huge thanks to GPS, I made it to Ball Ground with six minutes to spare even after not trusting GPS and making three wrong turns.

Neah’s team wore white uniforms but they might as well have been yellow and black swarming bees.  Not known for a potent offense, the white team came out with a sticky, shifty, stinging defense that smothered the team in black.  It was 3-0 late in the first quarter, and the favored black jerseys had the noticeable zero. They were stunned. Truth be told, everybody was stunned.  Except maybe the girls in white.

All that first-quarter energy took a bit of zip out of Neah’s team in the second period, but only a bit.  The good girls – I mean, the white jerseys – trailed by only a couple of points at halftime.  And after the halftime rest, Neah and her mates were nagging wasps again. They allowed only one basket in the third quarter while Neah kept her team in the game with a huge basket of her own. Entering the final period, palms were sweaty and perspiration was dripping – and that was from the stressed out parents and spectators.

The team in black endured another period of suffocating defense as the white jerseys refused to give up in the final quarter.  The relentless scrambling for the ball created absolute chaos for the girls in black, but they managed to survive.  “Glad that’s over,” one black jersey mumbled after the game.  Her next thought surely was, “hope we don’t have to play them again.”

Grandparents are proud of their grandchildren win or lose.  Sometimes they are more proud when they lose than when they win.  And, they are really proud when they get to have a picture taken after the game with the toughest competitor on the floor.

A few minutes before the picture, red-faced and drained with fatigue, Neah and her teammates offered handshakes and congrats to the scoreboard winners.

The other winners, the real winners, wore the white jerseys that night in Ball Ground.

 

When we first saw tiny Mocha, the vet advised us that she was the runt of the litter and therefore might be a little slow in life.  She will be just fine, I assured him, just fine.  Besides, we’ll just call her Mocha-Mocha in case she doesn’t get it the first time.

As things turned out, Mocha was not slow in any way.  She even learned to spell much quicker than her peers. When she looked up at you with her wide eyes and barked twice, we knew it spelled “g-o” as in she wanted to go for a ride.  Four  distinct barks and there was no doubt she was spelling “w-a-l-k.”  She was rarely denied, looked forward to her car rides, and wore out a lot of leashes.

Mocha also loved laps and her soft blanket.  And small raw carrots and WW’s homemade macaroni and cheese … and french fries from McDonald’s.

Being the runt of her litter made Mocha feisty.  She also was fast, especially when you dropped a tiny morsel of anything edible.  You could kiss that morsel goodbye.  And if it happened to be a french fry, it never hit the floor.

As chihuahuas go, Mocha was as good as it gets.  The only possible comparable was her predecessor, Yoda, who was calm and deliberate and ladylike.  Mocha-Mocha would have none of that.  More like a tomboy with a devilish gleam when she was up to no good. She knew she shouldn’t, but she was going to do it anyway.

Mocha especially enjoyed the long ride to The Cabin – most likely because the ride always meant a stop for McDonald’s french fries at Exit 80.  No doubt, she could sense when we were nearing that exit.  After two fries she would nap in her blanket the rest of the way.  She always waited for another fry but she knew better.

Mocha’s 14 years with us followed Yoda’s 11.  How could we possibly ask for more?

Then the vet told us one Friday to take Mocha home for the weekend in hopes that she would rebound.  The look in his eyes said something else: the weekend most likely would be our final couple of days with her.  Something had happened, almost suddenly, as she settled down onto her pallet; no more spring in her legs, no gleam in her eyes, only pain.  Fourteen years had taken its toll.

So we took her home for the weekend.  Nothing would perk her, not even a dab of WW’s macaroni and cheese.  She just wanted to rest.  So, she slept with us Saturday and Sunday nights although I was awake most of Sunday night, looking at her and asking God to take her gently.

Monday was a sad day.  I held a sedated Mocha as the vet gave her the injection.  Within seconds she was at peace in my arms and on her way to greet Yoda.  Indeed, she was taken gently.  The vet suggested cremation, but we already had a site picked for Mocha – she would be buried next to Yoda at The Cabin on the lake.

Mocha’s last ride was two hours of total, sad silence – except at Exit 80 to order french fries. Cuddled in her favorite blanket, she rode in her usual place on the seat next to me.  She would be buried in her favorite blanket, snuggled up with her favorite toy, a couple of carrots … and french fries – a double order.

Unlike us, Mocha-Mocha would be just fine.

 

It’s not unusual to talk sports with grandson Austin although I did have to brush up on lacrosse terminology and strategy and rules the past four years.  That’s because Austin was generally considered one of the two best high school lacrosse players in Louisiana his senior year.  But, this isn’t about ability or bragging about a grandson.

This is about the kind heart of a kid.

The question was simple:  Austin wanted to know my thoughts about the best pro basketball player ever to play the game.  Wilt Chamberlain came to mind along with Bill Russell, but those two were from an era too far gone for Austin to relate.  “What about Michael Jordan and Larry Bird?” he asked.  “Which one of those was better?”  I could have offered a couple of smart aleck answers … like … it depends on what city you were from, Chicago or Boston, or … it depends on whether you were a Bulls fan or a Celtics fan. But I didn’t because it seemed like Austin was seriously curious about how yesteryear’s professional players might rank with today’s players.

So my answer was, “Jordan probably was the best, but Bird was definitely my favorite.”  Then I sent him a highlight video of Bird, which he loved.

It’s not uncommon for Austin to be awake around midnight during the NBA season, watching west coast games.  He loves basketball as much as lacrosse.  But this isn’t about basketball either. When Austin’s senior season of high school lacrosse was ready to tip off – or whatever you do to start a lacrosse game – he was captain of his team and ready for a banner year after setting multiple school records as an underclassman.  Opponents knew their best hope was to triple team him, a strategy that often was not successful.  A stack of letters from college lacrosse coaches was evidence enough of Austin’s skills.

The first game of his senior season, however, never really started for him.  Before any contact at all, he dropped to his knees in pain and could barely breathe.  Making it worse, he did not know why.  He was rushed to the hospital where doctors determined he had suffered a spontaneous pneumothorax – the sudden onset of a collapsed lung without any apparent cause.  No physical contact.  No pre-game jitters.  No nothing. It just happened at this particular time in his life.  Following two agonizing weeks in the hospital, surgery was necessary.  After lots of agony for him and even more agonizing by his mother, his lung finally was able to maintain full inflation on its own.

While Austin’s lung proved to be really stubborn, there was nothing wrong with his heart.  Two weeks after leaving the hospital, he was back on the lacrosse field.  He finished his senior season, won numerous awards and was named to the All-State lacrosse team despite missing part of the year.  The untimely challenge with his collapsed lung obviously did not keep him down long.

But this really isn’t about a lung either.  It’s about the kind heart of a thoughtful kid.

Austin’s motive behind the Larry Bird-Michael Jordan conversations was sneaky.  He knew his grandparents were coming to Louisiana for a Christmas visit.  As it turned out, the eight-hour drive was well worth it.  He had saved his money from part-time work to order a special (and expensive) gift for Grandad.

The official, NBA certified Larry Bird game jersey – replete with the famous number “33” and even more famous name “Bird” – now hangs in my home office. I will treasure the jersey of my favorite basketball player … but not nearly as much as my favorite lacrosse player.

 

We were on our way to church one Sunday about three years ago.  We had moved to Woodstock from Roswell a year earlier, so the drive to Roswell Presbyterian was right at 35 minutes.  Of course, we were running late and had left ourselves about 20 minutes to get there.  Which meant we would not make it for the music, which many times was the most uplifting part of the service for me.  My WW (wonderful wife) always was better at listening to the minister’s message than me; my mind tends to wander to much less important subjects – like where we would go for lunch, when could I get to The Cabin again, were the Falcons going to win, or how in the world our politicians have managed to royally screw things up so badly.  But, obviously I digress.

So, we were not going to make it to Roswell Pres anywhere near on time, and we were passing the huge Woodstock Baptist campus.  Why not give it a try?  A quick left turn and we were in a humongous parking lot – and it was only for senior citizens and handicapped folks.  And it was completely full.  Regular attendees were being shuttled from more distant lots.  We obviously looked like lost sinners, so the volunteers in bright orange vests waved us into the visitor parking area.

We found our way to the main sanctuary in time for the opening hymn.  What looked like a 200-person choir bellowed the words of “Just As I Am” as we found our seats in this massive indoor stadium.  I had not heard “Just As I Am” at church since my teenage years at Ridgecrest Baptist in Columbia, S.C.  And as I listened to the singing, I wondered if this left-turn decision was one of those devine intervention moments.

I would have been mesmerized by the sheer size of everything inside Woodstock Baptist had it not been for the pastor and his ability to captivate the congregation.  Who was this unmasked man?  Johnny Hunt.  Not The Reverend or Most Honorable.  Just Johnny.  I had seen his name on a road sign – somehow a major thoroughfare in front of the church had been named for him.  After hearing him, I understood why.  But he looked sort of ordinary.  No suit, no white shirt, not even a tie.  But this man could preach The Word – perhaps even better than Rev. Vello Forrester, my boyhood pastor at Ridgecrest, who often admonished us all that “there is no difference in a little white lie and a big black one.”  True stuff.  Rev. Forrester also declared my girlfriend as my WW about 47 years ago.  But Johnny Hunt’s background is stunning: a reformed drinker and gambler from a shady pool hall life with a message that was, and is, unmistakable and a commitment that was, and is, crystal clear.  He is a man of God.  Minds do not wander when he is delivering his messages.  Not even mine.

Absolutely nothing against Roswell Pres, but we no longer make that 35-minute drive to Roswell except when our granddaughters are in a special program.  And, the left turn that Sunday morning added to an interesting dichotomy in our lives. When in Woodstock, we now attend a church of 8,000 with a $17 million budget.  When in middle Georgia at The Cabin, we attend a church of 20-something (last week’s attendance was 17) where members pool their Christmas cards and send them to us in one envelope to save postage.  Bethel United Methodist is the mid-Georgia rural jewel where people experience real life.  When the church needs money, members are apt to schedule a series of yard sales.  Their prayer request list is much longer than its membership roll.  Johnny Hunt would love this little church.

And, we love Woodstock Baptist.  Devine intervention?  Sure glad we made that left turn years ago.

 

 

It’s only fitting that my first blog be about The Cabin.  Regardless of what my WW (Wonderful Wife) might say, I do not love The Cabin more than her.  And, I do not love it more than my kids and grandkids. Everything else in the world?  Maybe so.  Okay, probably so.

I wish everybody could have their own little piece of Heaven.  My WW says it has added at least 10 years to my life.  We’ve been married 47 years – my WW and me – and The Cabin and I will celebrate our 20th anniversary this year.  About 19 years ago on a stressful day at work, I decided I needed a break.  Told my secretary – you could call them that back then – I was gone.  That was code for “to The Cabin.”  She knew where I was headed, but she didn’t know when she would see me again.

So, I escaped. Just like that, I was gone. Even the Atlanta traffic didn’t slow me down. I do remember calling my WW on the way.  She answered with “you’re on the way to The Cabin, aren’t you?”

It’s about a two-hour drive to my little piece of Heaven, but it seems like it takes six hours to get there.  But even the drive whittles away the stress.  The Cabin is in middle Georgia on a little known lake.  It’s on about seven acres and cannot be seen from the road.  Those are the only directions you’re going to get because it’s wonderfully quiet there, especially weekdays, and I want to keep it that way.  I once went for five days and four nights and didn’t have to speak to anybody.  Absolute bliss.  My WW just cannot relate to that.

The Cabin became part of the family almost by accident. WW and I were in a boat with friends, motored into a cove and saw two large homes for sale.  Those two homes were the opposite of my desire for a retreat – way too big, sprawling with sweeping decks, three levels of bedrooms. Nice but not for me. I already had a nice home in Roswell. Directly between these two homes, however, was a vacant lot loaded with trees.  As our boat moved closer, I realized the vacant lot was not vacant at all.  Nestled under the thick trees was a small log cabin.  For Sale sign on the dock, and my heart started pumping.  Twenty-four hours later WW and I knocked down the spider webs and opened the front door.  One look inside and we faced each other and said simultaneously, without a lot of hoopla, “This is it.”  Very soon after, it would join the family and become The Cabin.

The Cabin had been closed up for about two years before being rescued.  Squirrels had found their way inside, couldn’t remember how to get out, and gnawed the wood around window panes, apparently trying to escape.  The gnawed window panes remain today; some things in this world just don’t need to be fixed.  Wildlife also made lunch of the cedar two-by-sixes on the lakeside porch, creating a nearly perfect semi-circle at the top of the steps leading to the porch. Some things in the world need to be fixed so that semi-circle soon disappeared, replaced by other full length two-by-sixes and a screened porch to keep the varmints at bay.  But outside changes to The Cabin have been few and far between since then.  After all, how do you improve on a little piece of Heaven?

And, about that day I left work in search of some time without stress?  Well, I bought a dozen minnows at the four-way stop 6.5 miles from The Cabin, eased the jon boat into the lake, cranked the small 15 Merc, and anchored mid-cove.  Opened a lawn chair in the jon boat for a bit more comfort as a slight breeze positioned the boat for a perfect view of The Cabin.  Two hours later I gave a dozen minnows their freedom. I had leaned back, closed my eyes and never even put the fishing lines in the water.

So it is at The Cabin.