Cabin Mama

Humor and woodsy wisdom by Laura Lollar

How I Met the Man of My Dreams

I wasn’t looking. And despite my sister’s encouragement, I wasn’t eager to meet the guy she kept saying was a very nice man. She’d worked with him for decades and had even showed me his Facebook Page. Nice smile. Good looking guy. But I’d gotten used to being on my own lo’ those many years and frankly didn’t want the drama.

Then she invited me to a Military Appreciation Day concert. Mom, Dad and my sister were planning to go. She added, “Oh and Doug’s coming too.”

Great. Pressure. I said, “Okay, but just don’t make me sit next to him.” I didn’t want a setup. I’d been in the new house just a few years after the wildfire burned my old one down and was happy to have some peace in my life. But just in case, I brought my best friend along too – for protection ya know.

We all met for a bite to eat before the concert and I noticed how nice he was to my Mom. He was great fun to talk with, we had some things in common and I liked the stories he told.

The concert was wonderful. I sat way at the end of the row and he sat way at the other end next to my sister. After it was over, he gave me his business card and I gave him mine.

My sister told me that as they walked out to the car, Doug mentioned he liked our family a lot. “Your Mom and Dad are great. Your sister was nice.” Then he said, “But I REALLY liked your sister Laura.”

The next day, we exchanged a polite, “Nice to meet you” email and then, well, then there was nothing. A month passed, so I went about my business until out of the blue, I got a text. “Would you like to have supper with me sometime?” I said yes and within a minute he extended the invite. “How about this coming Monday?” he asked. The guy didn’t waste much time firming things up.

So we had dinner — once, twice, three times. He came to my house and I went to his. Before we knew it, we were a couple. It was gradual but it was clear there was something there of substance. We got along well. He made me laugh. I shared all my baggage early on, thinking it was best to get it out there so there weren’t any surprises. He did the same. He asked me questions about my likes, dislikes, my life and my driving record. (He’s an engineer, after all.)

There were regular emails with links to romantic songs on YouTube and texts of “sweet nothings” that gave me goosebumps. I loved being pursued and I swear there were days I couldn’t concentrate on work. At. All.

It was wonderful to finally meet someone who seemed to be as enthralled with me as I was with him. Truly, the sun shone brighter and the sky seemed bluer. Life was good!

Then my birthday came around. Wait till you hear what happened next!

A Wild and Crazy Road Trip

Family road trips bring back fond memories, don’t they? Everyone would pile in the car and snuggle up together for hours on end. It was a bonding experience with our sweaty little arms and legs stuck to each other and the vinyl seat covers. Why, when I was a kid, we couldn’t wait for the chance to leave our friends and favorite TV shows for hours of uninterrupted time with our brothers and sisters. Yes, it’s true. I’m not kidding.

So, when we moved from northern California to Upstate New York and I learned I’d have to drive it alone with the kids, I jumped for joy. Why, what better way to solidify that parent/child relationship than four days in a compact car in July with no air conditioning. Yep, keep ‘em cooped up in a car so they have no choice but to listen to you. Nothing but 2600 miles of open road and four days of togetherness!

Somewhere in Utah we ran into road work. Two lanes gradually merged into one, squeezing us into a narrow channel that was blocked on both sides by concrete barriers. It was unsettling. There was nowhere to go except forward. And it went on and on for miles. Thankfully the kids were quiet and calm, so I could focus on keeping us off the walls. Just like a bobsled team, we swiftly sped down and around, leaning into the curves.

All of a sudden, my eldest let out a blood curdling scream and I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Mom! Get it off me! Get it OFF me!”

Panicked, I darted my eyes from the chute up ahead to the rear view mirror. What was terrorizing my child? What could I do to make him stop screaming?

But in the reflection, all I could see was a ginormous 18-wheeler. He was right on our tail, bearing down on us. He was close. Scary close. He blasted his horn. And I couldn’t see the driver’s face. For a moment I felt like Dennis Weaver in Steven Spielberg’s movie Duel!

“MOMMMMMY! GETITOFFMEEEE!” My six year old’s lungs were piercing my eardrums. The baby was crying. My middle son was yelling, “Bug Mom. BUG!” (The last time he did that, he was inches from a tarantula.)

There was nothing I could do. (They say the only time a woman feels totally helpless is when her fingernail polish is wet. I beg to differ!)

So there we were with 40 tons of metal cozying up to my back bumper and a car full of screaming kids barreling down a concrete runway with no way out. The bug played a starring role, but like the driver of that truck, I still hadn’t seen its face.

With nerves of steel, I tightened my grip on the wheel and yelled for everyone to calm down. (Yes, you know that worked, right?)

Then the concrete barriers gave way and we made our escape down the exit ramp and only a wide and welcoming shoulder. Not a moment to lose, I threw open the door, sprang from my seat and rushed to the aid of my eldest.

It was about the biggest bug I’d ever seen outside a movie theater! It had a ginormous body with long, waving antennae and at least 18 legs. It had crawled up his shirt and onto his neck. He was paralyzed in fear. Hesitating for only a moment, I did what any brave mother would do.

I asked my four year old to shoo it way.

A Mechanically Challenged Cabin Mama

My husband brought home a tractor. It’s big, green and comes from Mr. John Deere.

And he’s as happy as a pig in “you-know-what” moving dirt around. I was amazed at how many levers and controls are on the thing. The owner’s manual is about 3 inches thick, but he worked his way through it in just a few hours. He’s an engineer, so to him, this kind of thing is like a romance novel is to the rest of us. Then he hopped right up in the driver’s seat and took control of it like the macho man he is. (I can just imagine the book cover now!)

Me? I am still afraid of my Insta Pot. I got it for Christmas and have yet to cook anything in it. My daughter (who gave me the gift) encourages me by saying, “Mom, it’s not much different than cooking on the stove.” But still I hesitate. My guess is that once I use it a few times, I’ll want to Insta Pot every meal we eat. Then I’ll expect a blue ribbon and tons of praise for my efforts, thank you very much!

Yes, I’ll admit it; I’m mechanically challenged. My daughter will spend 30 minutes on YouTube then change the timing belt on her SUV. I was so proud of her I almost busted my buttons! Me, on the other hand, I never even learned how to change the oil in my car. (She can do that too.)

Yours truly has been known to drive around with the parking brake on.

It’s not because I’m blonde (most days). It’s not because I don’t have enough grey matter — I’m a pretty sharp cookie (most days). I just have a healthy fear and respect for the risks involved should something go wrong. Let’s just say I’d rather not be thought a fool should I fail. If I do fail, I’d rather it be with devices that don’t do much damage or cost a lot to repair. Our manual can opener is a good bet.

When my oldest was five, he pushed me aside from a kitchen gadget I was trying to fix and said, “Here Mom, I’ll do that for you!” And by golly, he did. Even HE could tell I was in over my head by watching my lack of progress. It’s moms like me who hate to admit, “So easy a five year old can do it!”

Even my 88 year old mother puts me to shame. She can wield a glue gun like nobody’s business and whip up a silk flower wreath in sixty minutes or less. Gosh darn, I’m lucky I can maneuver my curling iron.

The other day my husband asked me if I wanted to get in the driver’s seat and take the tractor for a spin. I rolled my eyes and reminded him I haven’t even tried out the lawn mower yet.

Maybe I’m not so dumb after all!

Locking Little Sister In the Outhouse

We went camping last week and stayed at a campsite with no utilities or water, but quite conveniently it has an outhouse nearby. There was a sign on the door of this one-hole potty requiring people to wear a mask or else they could not enter. Let me say this again, it was a ONE-hole outhouse and barely measured 7’ X 7’ or 49 square feet. The sign also urged social distancing to stay at least 6 feet apart. For those who didn’t plan on having a party in there, it made me giggle to see people put on their mask before they entered the single person outhouse — alone. They took that sign seriously, by golly!

Growing up visiting Grandpa’s camp in upstate New York, we took our outhouse seriously too. He had built a luxurious potty with two holes, a shower (which we never used) and a waiting area with a 4 foot tall antique upright metal stove in the corner. We even had reading materials plastered on the walls to keep us occupied while we waited.

We girls had the job of cleaning out the outhouse (no not THAT kind of cleaning) by sweeping up the dust and dead bugs, spraying disinfectant, replacing toilet paper, etc. Big glass windows were high up above our heads which was a favorite spot of spiders to spin their webs and catch the multitude of bugs that found their way inside.

One day, sister #2 and I conspired to lock sister #3 in there as it was starting to get dusk. Grandpa had put a latch on the outside where he could put a padlock but we didn’t need the lock to scare the living daylights out of her. There was no electricity and it was growing dark. So she faced the reality of being surrounded by all kinds of flying and crawling bugs as the light disappeared. Sister #2 and I slipped out the door and before she knew what was happening we had flipped the latch, then ran back up the hill to the main cabin, giggling all the way.

We walked into the kitchen trying to contain our glee and look innocent but Mom caught onto us pretty fast.

She asked, “Are you girls done with your chores down there?”

“Yes, we’re all done.”

“Where’s Cindy?” She asked.

“Well, she’s still cleaning so we left her there.” Being the oldest, I felt like I needed to handle the situation. “But she’s okay, really.” I said between grins.

“You left her there? You two march back down and help your sister finish up. It’s getting dark out; take the flashlights with you,” she said.

So mom made us go back and let her out. Needless to say our little sister was furious and had tears streaming down her face. We felt a little guilty. To this day, this is the same sister who’s paranoid about bugs. Maybe we locked her in there because she was already paranoid and we knew we’d get a rise out of her, but either way, bugs are still the bane of her existence. Once she finds a new bug around her house, she’s on the prowl to catch it, then drives 10 miles across town to get a diagnosis from the local coop. I fear we damaged her for life!

Years later, when my parents bought their own smaller cabin down the gravel road, it came equipped with an outhouse that needed lots of work.

My mother is quite the decorator, so it wasn’t long before she had cleaned it up, then had my Dad replace the old rotten wooden doors with glass French ones. As a final touch, she hung silk flower wreaths outside the doors and put some decorative knick-knacks inside to liven things up.

We had the fanciest outhouse in all of Upstate New York and were the envy of all! But my sister has never been the same.

 

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.