cabin in the woods

My family’s got a cabin in the woods. Deep in the plains of Wyoming, it sits as sentry surrounded by wheat-colored grasses and trees that flutter softly in the breeze. There used to be more trees, before the fire that came and surrounded the cabin, saved only by the clearing of forest my grandma had thought to undertake. Paths carved out by my grandpa lead family members to an outdoor oven known for its participation in making grandpa’s famous sourdough pancakes. Along the wandering flagstone are benches to rest on, an outhouse built for a king, an older, smaller cabin outfitted with an early 20th century fireplace where my parents stayed for their wedding, and many other relics representative of an old cowboy lifestyle.

The main cabin is filled with cookery from the 1960s, pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. A dining table destined for playing cards sits near the screen door leading out onto the covered porch where a quilted bed sits. Upstairs, four cots await sleepy grandchildren to crawl into, carrying lanterns to light their way.

This place is a collection of many different lives lived, welcoming more lives to come and add their own touches. It is a safe haven for many, a site for gatherings, celebrations, and memories made.