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Humor and woodsy wisdom by Laura Lollar

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Cabins

Jul 14 2020

Becoming a Woodsy Woman

Grandpa worked in the city, but loved the woods. So in 1937 he bought 40 acres in Upstate New York, pitched an Army tent for the family to live in, then cleared white pines and hemlock trees for a cabin. We called it Camp – Camp Pinehurst.

Camp was made of formed concrete, cement block and wood. And each year, Grandpa would build more, adding a front room, bunk rooms, a kitchen with huge picture windows and a back room with a fireplace big enough to lay down in.

There was no running water or electricity. We hauled buckets down from the well to wash with and water jugs from town for drinking. Kerosene lamps were the norm. Our outhouse was the finest in all the land, with two holes and a shower stall that never got used. (Grandpa never could get water up onto that roof.)

Then there was the bar – a magnificent knotty pine creation with big glass bottles of ginger ale, root beer and orange soda pop stored behind and below. Adult beverages were hidden way up high, well out of reach of curious kids. The golden shellac of the bar top reflected faces young and old sharing late night yarns, some of which were mostly true!

(Below: Gramma and Grandpa)

Three generations of family and friends gathered at Camp for clam bakes, deer camps, holiday celebrations and snipe hunts. We’d sing old fashioned campfire songs, punctuated by staccato explosions from a metal mesh popcorn basket. We scared ourselves silly with ghost stories which made our last outhouse run in the dark a thrilling adventure. We clung close to whomever had a flashlight, careful not to fall too far behind and be grabbed by ghouls that lurked behind every tree. No one wanted to relive that walk in the night, making the chamber pot balancing act a morning necessity. Woe to the person who dripped or tripped!

Oh that every child could have the gift of growing up in the woods! To discover the splendor of salamanders and toads, wander down a “bumpity road” and stuff wild strawberries into a dixie cup. To have the freedom to roam creeks, fields and hills without fear. To learn how to lower the flag from the pole at sunset, careful not to let it drape in the dirt. To see the stars against an inky black sky, without the competing glow of too many towns. To realize how much you learned without knowing it, simply because you lived in the woods.

That’s how I became a woodsy woman.

Written by Cabin Mama · Categorized: Cabins · Tagged: Bristol Hills NY, cabins

Jun 23 2020

Critter Capers

Friends couldn’t believe I would leave my clean, spacious condo in town and move to an old, tiny cabin way back in the woods. “One winter out there and you’ll beg to come back,” they said. “Think of the work just to keep it clean. You’ll cut off a toe; you’ve never chopped wood in your life. And what about the bugs and the bears?!?”

They were right about the bugs.

They crawled up out of the drainpipe, cornering me as I scooted to the back of the tub. I grabbed the shampoo and tried to inflict a swift and sudsy death. Desperately, I shoved the soap with one toe and prayed the darned thing wouldn’t hop. Down it went, into the depths of dank and rusted drainpipes. But my sense of security was shattered — no longer could I shower with my eyes closed.

It didn’t stop in the bathroom. The cats dropped three-legged colorless crickets on the top of my bed, and I’d watch in horror as they hopped in circles. (The crickets, not the cats.) From then on, any twitch or tickle I felt as I slept became imagined insects crawling over the covers and up to my face.

The drama didn’t stop inside the four walls. Outside, crows would swooping and invade the pines, watching and waiting for a chance to dive-bomb my cats. Flickers drilled their jackhammer beaks into bug infested logs on the sides of my home. The most dastardly among them made straight for the metal gutters leaving me frustrated and furious as I raced for the door and watched them fly off, taunting me with their cackling caw, caw, caw!

You’d think that leaving the door open to let in the breeze would be a welcoming sight, but it ruined relationships. After a triangle-headed alligator lizard walked in and under the feet of a friend, she joined the ranks of those who declined my invites to visit. They’d say, “Um, it’s too far of a drive. Find me on Facebook.”

But there were furry little fellows who filled the void. Black squirrels and red squirrels kept me company all day and into the night. They chewed a hole through the logs and got into the attic. I’d lay in my bed and hear them over my head, munching away on the wood and the wires.

Snakes hid in the walls between drywall and logs, crawling out from behind a south facing window and sunning themselves on the ledge by our front door. They slithered from under the heat runs, discouraging my efforts to clean up the mouse droppings. After months at the cabin with no snakes in sight, I’d hoped they’d moved on. And they had. My neighbors discovered a nest in their attic and threw all 18 of them back over the fence and into my yard.

It’s almost a decade since that fateful day when we moved to the cabin. Each morning I’d open the door, breathe in the piney fresh air and count the bugs, the birds and my blessings. I wouldn’t have traded it for anything!

Written by Cabin Mama · Categorized: Cabins, Critters · Tagged: critters, humor

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