A Real Dream

 

 Photo credits: Elaine H. 

        Along a road in a state forest, a driveway veered off into the woods. The lane was gently lit by a break in the branches. Ferns dotted the sides and tiny ones crept into the middle of the lane. It was delightfully beautiful. The first part of the lane had been recently driven on, as I could see tire tracks, but the second part had been left for sometime to the care of nature.

        The second part of the driveway was banked with moss. The middle was a soft carpet embedded with ferns, trillium, and other wispy plants. The leaves showed no signs of recent trampling, and the grass had just enough light to peek its way through. At the end of the little lane was a perfect cabin.

        It was a log cabin: dark logs connected by cabin plaster with a sloping roof and a few old windows. The wood framing the porch was old, the roof mossy, and spiderwebs had taken possession. The front of the house, (or shall it be the back?) had a true porch several feet off the ground. The wood had been skillfully laid, but it, too, was inhabited by lichens and moss. Water had warped the end boards, bending them up and down according to its fancy. On the side of the house was a great chimney, plastered with brick and boasting an unusual peephole.

        The doors were locked, but I could see in the window. On the plaster near the door a date was carved: the cabin was built in 1937. The inner contents of the first floor gave apt description to that date. The stove and refrigerator looked as old as the house. To me, the old refrigerator looked like it could be hand cranked. It was small, white, and clunky looking. On a stairway leading up to the bedroom, various items were placed in easy reach of the kitchen.

        A jar of Jiff peanut butter, a Glad cling wrap, mustard, and other items like that. Immediately at my nose in the window was a box of matches. By the labels on all these items, they were not current, and could not have been. While the colors may have faded, the design was just not the current updated ones. They bore the gentle mark of yesterday. (According to other photos on the web, they seem to have been 5 years old, probably not more.)

        In view of the porch, a little footpath led into the woods and to a stream. A bath or pool of sorts had been built on top of a spring. The rocks were covered in moss, and they formed a well-designed rectangle. The bottom of the pool was covered with white sand, but in places it, too, was covered with moss. Some white sand stayed uncovered because of little water jets coming from underground. The water flow was just stagnate enough to encourage mosquitoes, but it was still cool and clear.

        Grass grew all around the cabin. It was not lush, but the spindly growth allowed by low light. Ferns and moss had the upper hand, and but for the road we had veered off in the beginning, it was beautifully quiet. I could have stayed there for a long time.

        It was the perfect place to stay alone for a week or two. It featured almost everything in my dream cabin in the woods, and it was real.