The Country Cabin; part one of two
Posted: Wednesday, April 22, 2009
by Nila Smith
Fact and Fiction
Her mother was more attuned to country clubs than country cabins.
But he needed a place where he could get away, away from the noise and heat of the city, away from a job that he never truly loved, and away from the high society lifestyle that meant so very much to her.
He knew in his heart that he could never make her love the cabin, but he did all he could to give her the things she desired in a home. He built a large bathroom, larger than most folks bedrooms, with a spacious shower, large soaking tub, double sinks, large mirrors, and beautiful lighting. He attached to it her own private dressing room, which she filled with outlandish clothing that was never worn in the rustic setting of the cabin in the woods.
The kitchen offered all the modern amenities available, and he paid an enormous price to tap into the community water system so that she would not have to content with drinking from a well.
But there were two things he had done for himself.
Across the front of the cabin he had built a massive porch with plenty of room to sit out in the evening and watch the twilight turn to darkness. He spent hours on that porch with his feet propped up on the railing, leaning back on two legs of a straight back chair, puffing cherry tobacco from his corn cob pipe, and listening to the crickets as they serenaded him with their evening symphony.
He was so attuned to the outdoors that as night fell, he could hear the rustling in the underbrush of little animals scurrying about. His eyes could focus on a small red fox 40 yards away, sniffing and running, trying to catch a rabbit for his supper.
Sydney joined him often on that porch, as she loved it there too, and like him, she could spy the fox, and most times found herself rooting for the rabbit, hoping the small creature would find safety before the fox could nab it and devour it.
She once whispered to her father that she hoped that the rabbit could get away, and he chuckled and said he did too.
That was when she knew, that she was and would always be, much more like her father than her mother.
And the second part of the cabin that was built just for him was the fireplace that Sydney now sat in front of remembering him, and loving him as only a daughter can love a dad.
The fireplace was massive and masculine. Its large craggy stones had been gathered from the creek bed at the bottom of the hill the cabin now sat on. Her father had laid most of them by his own hand, seeking help only when the fireplace reached a height that required scaffolding and special equipment to get the large stones in place.
Sydney remembered well the first summer her dad disappeared from her life. She was only six, but knew that dad was gone, and mother was angry.
Later, Sydney realized that in the early stages of building his cabin get away, her father had gone alone, not wishing to subject her and mother to the primitive living that he was enjoying.
He had purchased the land in the wood, on a hill, and paid to have a pathway excavated. At the very top of the hill he had the land leveled and cleared so the cabin could be build on flat ground.
The timbers that fell were gathered to the side, and later used to begin the building of the cabin.
When the work began, father lived in a tent, covering the bed an old pick-up truck he'd purchased for hauling materials to his building site.
When the frame of the cabin was finished, he moved inside and though primitive with no water, no bathrooms, and only the most basic of furnishing, he relished each moment spent in his self made masterpiece.
The summer of Sydney 's ninth year, her father brought the family to the cabin for the first time. His work wasn't quite finished, but he had assured himself that he had everything complete that would make her mother happy.
As they drove to the top of the hill that day, his eyes were brilliant, his face glowing with pride. He waited anxiously for her to offer praise for his magnificent masterpiece, but it never came.
Three hours into the visit, as Sydney wandered about in the yard outside, she heard through the open windows her mother wailing that it was a God forsaken house, on a Godforsaken hill, in a God forsaken woods, on God forsaken land.
Her father had replied angrily; "Then apparently you have married a God forsaken man, for this is what I love, and this is what I need to keep me sane and happy. And now, you must choose. After all these years of trying to make me into your model husband, you decide. You accept this place and the man who built it, or you go on alone."
Sydney remembered the fear that rose up in her throat that day; she had never heard her father raise his voice to anyone. As she anxiously waited for her mother to drag her suitcase to the car and storm down the hill never to be seen again. She wondered if they would allow her to choose as well, or would she be forced to live with one parent or the other. But the moment never came. Her mother begrudgingly accepted the cabin, and for the duration of her father's life, the family spent several weeks each summer living there.
Unlike her mother, Sydney loved the cabin, and the woodland with all its animals.
Even now, as she sat in front of the huge fireplace, she remembered the best moments with her father. It was here that his hobby had led to her career. She laughed out loud as she recalled the lessons in photography and the summer she figured out how to take pictures of wildlife.
She had planned for several weeks, saving all her allowance monies, and just days before they were to leave on their trip, she had snuck away to the Army surplus store and purchased all the things she thought she would need.
She remembers harboring them in the bottom of her suitcase, hoping that her mother would not walk in while she packed and throw a rage over the odd costume.
She recalled when she stepped out onto the porch that day and her father looked at her and laughed so hard he nearly tipped over in his chair.
"Just what do you think you're up to young lady?"
She had explained to him, that she couldn't capture the animals in her lens because they could see her and would run away too quickly. She had figured that if she were disguised, they would not notice her. And disguised she was, with camouflage trousers and shirt, brown and green face paint smeared over every inch of exposed skin, and her hair tucked into a brown stocking cap, she looked like a army sniper, ready to hide in the bush and jump out only when the enemy was within striking distance.
Realizing the seriousness of her mission, her father had explained to her that more than sight, the animals could smell her, not that she smelled bad, just different, and they were leery of different. She learned about sitting facing the wind so that her smell went away from her target areas, and as she practiced this, she became more proficient at catching the wildlife.
Sydney was an only child, her fathers pride and joy and she flourished at the cabin. When her interest in photography led her to study that and journalism at the university, he was very pleased. When she graduated, he stole from his own fortune, to finance her life in New York where she could make contacts and build a career.
In spite of herself, she learned to find beauty not only in animals and hilltops, but on the streets of the city as well. She spent many hours walking the streets of New York, snapping pictures of common people, living their common lives.
These photos were eventually recognized by publishers of city papers, and she began to make a name for herself. Her father was proud of her, that she had found a career that meant something to her personally, something that made her life full and happy.
Now, at 25 she had made her mark on the world with photos that drew a gasp of awe from the most scrutinizing critic. She worked for one of the nation's largest magazines, traveling the world to capture on film the wonders it possessed.
Sydney was in Africa when word came that her father had passed away suddenly, the victim of a failed heart.
She flew home immediately to be by her mothers' side.
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Top-level comments on this article: (6 total)Good story, Nila. Is this a true story? If you mentioned it, I missed it.Hi Lorrie!This is total fiction, the other half of my writing personality. As I am a news writer by trade.I'm going to post part two in just a few minutes, as they really need to be read together in order to get the full impact.Thanks for reading!
Excellent. Holds my interest. You're good, man. It's enjoyable. The picture is painted without weighing me down with a million details I'd rather imagine anyway.Thank you so much!
Great article. Well done.I love the first part and the second part was just as good.Thank-you so much.I'm glad that you enjoyed both pieces!
Nila! WOW! I am privileged to read this work. A novel in the works, perhaps? I smiled, I was angered, cried a tear, and was blessed. I am looking foward t more of the story.Glad you have decided to grace us with your presence and talent for fiction! TeresaThanks TeresaI'm honored that you find my work interesting, as you are one of my favorites on SW!
Nila,Bravo! This fantastic, and thanks for sharing such a compelling write! It's good to see a pic to go with such a wonderful and creative author :)Ronyae, thank you so much!I very much enjoy writing fiction, it allows me to use a part of my brain that news reporting tends to neglect.I agree Nila. Totally.
Nice job!! Your incredible talent is shining through!!Remember that old song "We belong to a mutual admiration society"?I'm humbled that you find my work to be worthy, as I very much admire what you're doing with the Amulet pieces, and looking forward to the next installment, I might add, hint, hint, hint!!!
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