When we think of a cabin, especially a lost cabin, we usually think of a cabin in the woods. It is the presence of trees that bestows romance upon the cabin.
We live in a cabin, the wife and I – in a big cabin, mind you, in the woods. We built it, first as a camp without the amenities (meaning water and power and central heating and books) and then we retrofitted it as a home, precisely because it is in the woods.
Like others who live in the woods because they love the woods, we have a complicated relationship with the woods. We have agonized about cutting a tree down, and other times, we have cheerfully butchered the buggers. For years we nursed a clump of birch that impinged on our living space. We built a deck around them and coddled them and admired them and they flourished. Then we had to re-engineer the arrangement, and the birch became firewood. The fact that I am thinking about them now, tells you that I miss them.
We had to clear a large area for a septic field. Olga grooms that field. In many ways it is a garden. And any twig that dares to take root there, she rips up ruthlessly.
But nature is ruthless too. Nature kills trees.
(To be continued)