There is a cabin somewhere in Maine.
How do you get there?
After you’ve driven north from Massachusetts for six to twelve hours, you find a certain road, a road that looks like the road in the photo below, and then you turn off that road onto another road, and soon you’ll be there.
But, where is “there”?
The cabin belongs to a friend. Over 40 years ago, he and his wife bought the land it’s on, and subsequently, over a period of years, they, their family, and friends built a cabin. Now their children, with their children, come to the cabin when they can. Three generations is a good start to a history.
At this place, every stone, every log, every object inside has a tale to tell. The couch inside the cabin traveled thousands of miles before arriving here. The full story of the buying of the land and the building of the cabin would be a nonfiction novel.
Stacked atop each other, the white cedar wall logs have weathered to a silver gray.
The logs are precisely milled with tongues and grooves. You are invited to count the number of annual growth rings in this log. Surprisingly old, isn’t it?
Windows are carefully and precisely let into the solid walls.
Stovewood is stacked on the porch.
The porch looks over the lower field.
Inside, the cabin glows golden in gaslight.
In such a place, lack of electric power, running water, and internet are not deficits, but assets.
When the morning sun has risen higher, the metal roof gleams in light.
The cabin deserves praise.
We’ll give it a classic old New England praise phrase.