There's No Place Like Homes

A day at the cabin begins with a sunrise and ends with a smile.

I don't know who wrote it.  Eric bought me one of those cute little wooden-box knick-knacks that has that saying on it. I am one of the lucky people in the world to know the truth in that statement.  Some people have to camp in tents or trailers. Some people live in apartments or "the projects" or a hut somewhere in the world and never even get the chance to stay in a cabin. Some people--gasp!--don't particularly care for "Mother Nature" and all she has to offer. But me, I am one of the lucky few... and I am even lucky enough to have had two cabins in my life.

The Promised Land
When I was twelve, my parents and I went to look at a place on the Jordan River, in East Jordan. While I was exploring its mosquito infested yard, checking out what there was to do (not much, in my twelve-year-old opinion), my dad was floating down the river in a camouflage inner-tube, checking out the fish.  He passed by a different cabin on this float, a brown log place with a little sign out front that said, "The Promised Land" over the screened-in porch.  This place was also for sale, so our realtor took us to this new "cabin in the woods."

We walked in the back door to see knotty pine walls, a giant wrap around fireplace, and wooden stairs leading to a loft. Despite the velvet tiger painting above the fireplace mantel, the orange macrame curtains, and the olive green cupboards, my mom turned to my dad behind the realtor's back and mouthed, "I want this." We all did.

The loft upstairs came with two log twin beds, one of which had a mattress so old that I was swallowed into its softness as soon as I laid down. There was a little half wall, so that I could peek out to the kitchen below, but feel like I was in my own world. My best friend, Sheri, and I would play Pictionary, do puzzles, read books, talk, giggle, play darts from bed (it was a pretty small loft), spy on my parents, listen to music, and just be up there throughout my teen years. In the winter, the loft was the warmest spot, and there was nothing more comfortable than getting into my bed, layering on blankets, and hunkering down. I have never slept better any place in the world.

In the summer, we'd canoe, tube down to the bridge (a 15 minute trip), take hikes, walk the dogs in the nearby field, and occasionally fight the mosquitoes to sit in the hammock and read. Swimming in the river was RARELY an option, as the water was frigid.

One summer, we re-stained the outside of the cabin, but lost water from the pump. Since we couldn't shower--and, boy, did we need it--we decided a dip in the river was warranted. My dad went in first, the shock on his face almost enough to keep me out.  As we stood together in the icy flow, Dad whispered, "Don't tell your mother. She'll never get in--and she stinks!"

So, when Mom came out into the front yard and asked, "How's the water?" we both lied.

"It's great," we said, "come on in!"  We made a big play of bouncing around, splashing a little with our blue-tinged arms.

Mom ran and jumped--and screamed!  "Charles Daniel, you are a LIAR!"  She didn't stay in very long.

In the winter, we'd cross country ski, snowshoe, play board games, do crosswords, watch bad TV, read books, and sleep the sleep of the dead.  Sometimes, the road would be so blown-over with drifts that we'd have to load the toboggan with our bags and plod through the snow down the private road.

Most times, when we would get there, it would be so cold inside the cabin that the temperature would not even register on the old-fashioned thermometer.  Dad would start up the hot water register heat, make a fire in the fireplace, and celebrate with a beer when we could finally see the red needle rise in the thermometer's window (forty degrees!).  I would be up in my bed, snuggled under my covers, book in hand, and smile when I heard the tell-tale crack of the can.

One New Year's Eve, my parents got sick and went to bed--their bedroom being the space next to the "living room" area.  I remember calling out to them from my papasan chair (there were two, they were bamboo, and, yes, they came with the cabin, too) "Happy New Year, guys!" Our dog wagged her tail from my lap and licked my face.

A muffled reply came from under the covers, "Happy New Year, sweetie.  Sorry you're out there alone!" Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else.

To this day, when I pull down Thorsen River Drive, I can hear our dog begin to whine in my mind (and my dad smacking him with a ball cap to get him to knock it off).  As I drive down the wooded driveway, trees dragging against my windows, I feel like I am driving into a magical tunnel.  When I open the front door, I smell that woody, slightly musty smell, and I feel that cabin feeling.  I am thirteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty.  I hear my dad laugh, I feel the warmth of the fire on my feet, I see my mom doing cross-stitch in front of the television, I see canoers passing by the porch--I am home.

Clear Lake
As an adult, I waited around and did a grand search for the perfect guy for me. Eric proved to me that he was, indeed, THE ONE, by taking me away for any evening to his grandparents' cabin. Now, don't be thinking all hanky-panky here. At this point, Eric and I were just "frietentials" (friends with potential). We were not dating; he was not my boyfriend; we had never kissed.

Eric invited me to come on a mystery evening. Bring a sleeping bag, a bathroom bag, a sweatshirt, (a used q-tip, an eldelry person, a half-marked BINGO card, and a vial of deer urine) and prepare for fun. At this point, I didn't know whether or not Eric was even interested in me. We went out to dinner, took a four-wheeler ride past Joe Louis' old cabin, played cribbage, took a rowboat ride.  And then, heck ya, I kissed him in the rowboat under the stars.

We were married at that very same cabin, down at the waterfront, the sun shining, the Beach Boys playing, the loon swimming around in the background.

In the spring, the first thing I want to do is go clean the cabin, and stay the night.  Ben gets a little crazy--When are we staying at the cabin? When can we swim?--and I swear I do, too.

In the fall, when the leaves are changing, I love sleeping on the porch, heater going, snuggled under the blankets with my hubby. But in that same moment, I am sad, because I know that, soon, we will close things down, and we'll have to wait until spring again to come back.

Time stands still for my family when we are at the Clear Lake cabin.  We take boat rides, we fish, we swim, we make fires in the fireplace, we snuggle on the couch, eating popcorn and watching old Disney movies. We catch frogs and read books and eat cereal out of those fun little boxes.  We stay away from the rest of the world, and we hang together--us Halls--soaking up fun that we cannot seem to capture at home.

I have nursed two babies in the rocking chair on the front porch, watching the sunrise through the fog over the crystal glass lake. I have read wonderful novels, played countless games of cards, watched my babies go from toddlers who sat in the sand to swimmers who sprint off the dock, written blogs and portions of my novel there. I have learned to row a boat, drive a pontoon, play Hand and Foot, and become a wife--all on the tiniest lake you've ever seen.

Our dog, Lily, loves Clear Lake as much as any of us. She leaps from the car, runs to the shore, waits for someone to throw a stick. When we're all in the water, she'll come and swim past us--checking on us--making loops around all of us. She'll run and jump off the dock to fetch countless sticks, and, when we go on a boat ride, we have to take her with us or she'll just keep swimming after us. The dog can swim forever. Then, at night, she curls up in a little wet ball, and sleeps a deep sleep, dreaming of another day in the lake.

When we drive down Old State Road, my heart beats faster when I see "two trees" (or is it three?). As we drive down the driveway, I can physically feel myself begin the process of letting go of all the stress of real life--school work, the bills, the housework--and the magic of the cabin taking over.  Once we have all of our stuff put away--the fridge stocked, the beds made, the toys laid out--I go out onto the porch and I look through the trees at the lake, our lake, and I am home.