Midday at the cabin was spent down at the lake among the willows and waves.
Afternoons were sun-rich and silent. Quiet in order to let sleeping toddlers rest, each of us found peaceful employments—reading, sketching, daydreaming.
Under a dreadful, menacing black sword and shield crossed by the heavy chain of vicious mace, a clawfoot couch and matching chairs formed a trio in a bay window on the far end of the great room overlooking the backyard—the fire pit, the flag pole glad and towering on its stone base, the swing set, occasionally our cousin’s pop-up camper, often beach towels drying on the clothesline and waving like medieval banners in the breeze.
Under the slanting afternoon sun, feeling a little like Goldilocks sampling Papa Bear’s chair, I would hoist myself onto the high, dark, heavy furniture, my weight not enough to dent the thick, overstuffed brown leather. My fingers would trace the bumps of the bronze nailhead trim that outlined the thick limbs of the chair. Its arms and legs felt vital and strong, like those of a once-living—or perhaps still-living—creature (beast?) now trapped within the glossy, polished wood.
On this chair, facing the chandelier and the spiral staircase, under the shadow of the mace, I would read “Marigold and the Dragon” a picture book Grandma loved and left conspicuously on the coffee table for us. In this whimsically illustrated tale, a young princess, bored and alone climbs the spiral staircase in a corner tower of her father’s castle only to come across a dragon who pretends to be a prince transformed but is in reality all and only dragon. After that misunderstanding is cleared up thanks to a twist of lemon, a hair from a giant’s toe, and a few other magical ingredients, the two become fast friends.
My acquaintance with Marigold renewed, it was time to visit the sunroom. Separated from the great room by a thick plate glass wall, the sunroom was my older sister’s domain except during the afternoons when she would graciously allow me to join her. As I padded in, savoring the cool tiles and then warm rug beneath my feet, she would lie propped up on the patchwork quilt of the white metal-framed daybed, book in hand. I would collect a coloring book and crayons from a heavy, dark, richly carved wooden hutch. I recall a scene of medieval knights, and a tasseled key hanging from its door where Grandma stored coloring supplies, games, and playing cards.
I’d bring my coloring book to the heavy table against the far, window-lined wall overlooking the wooded precipitous hill to the lake. Savoring silence and the scent of warm crayons, I would color—hills, lakes, sunsets, flowers—much like the purple hostas clustered at my feet just on the other side of the wall.
My limited artistic ability exhausted—one thing not transformed by the magic of the cabin—I would wander towards the entryway and linger long. It was a tall circular, conical room—a castle turret.
Its dusty-blue round-topped door, adorned with elegant and elaborate hinges hinted at hobbit doors. To the left, a bank of light switches and their framed key labeled in my Grandmother’s beautiful script. On a small shelf lay a guest book bound in black velvet alongside a feather pen, its white plume long and drooping. As dust motes played in the sunlight streaming through the round, latticed window above the door, I stood undecided and unsure. I longed to share with her what the cabin meant to me, but I lacked the words. Even now, I fear I have fallen short.
Often, I would wander outside and circle the cabin in the afternoons, searching and persistent, sure that if I found the right part of the wall, away from windows, with the right footholds, I could scale the stone walls and perch on the summit of the sloping roof. But in order to accomplish this, I would have to trample the hostas that lay between me and the wall, and this I could not do. I hunted for a breach in their protective circlet, but breach there was none. Their silent reproach held firm against my foolish plans though I circled until Jericho itself would have fallen.
As night fell, we gathered in the mossy backyard around the stone fire circle. While I toasted marshmallows and participated in joyful mundane conversations after long but life-giving days, golden sparks spun and swirled until sparks and stars became one.
Although I was unable to breach the hostas’ protection, I also knew that they weren’t invulnerable. I shivered under the knowledge that although the cabin felt permanent, it was not indestructible. Anderson and Grimm had long ago taught me that tales of enchanted castles inextricably include goblins and dwarves, witches and djinn alongside flower fairies and buried treasure, secret gardens and magic beanstalks.
I had always known that if given access and opportunity, a wicked witch yet undefeated could call down perpetual winter upon Dorothy’s beautiful summer haven. And she did. Posing as a caregiver to my grandparents, she tore them from their family and stole the joy from their old age.
It had always felt like a dwarf could stamp his foot one day and make it all disappear. And he did. Shortly after my grandmother passed away, my grandfather—shrunken, angry, and battling dementia—sold the cabin in a rage without telling anyone for far less than it was worth (it has since been demolished to make room for a new build). He is the butterfly who stamped. And with that thunderclap, the cabin sank into memory where it has always lived.
Rachel Brown
enjoys sipping tea, savoring good books, and spending time outside.
She is daily inspired to live more deeply and love more fully by her husband and two children.
3 Responses
How can I ever tell you how much your 4-part Hosta memories mean to me!? You have recreated so much with your words!! I do not possess your gift of description, but, oh how I delight in the world and time you have allowed me to see and live in again! And what joy to see it all through your eyes! It was a very wonderful and special place and Grandma would cherish knowing that you delighted in it as much as she did! Thank you for this! I love you!!!!!!
Your story, my memories and Mother’s comment now have me tearing up even out in public at a bookstore coffee shop reading this. I miss this place.
Lydia, I just read this and am crying too.. she captured it so perfectly.