We pulled into the driveway, the tires spinning in the slick mud and when we got out, the wind whipped our faces like a restless spirit. That first trip was icy cold and miserable, but we clambered up to the cabin, up the mossy stone slabs, ascending the hill into the old growth sequoias, and into the rustic abode. I remember her smile as I looked down the driveway with a record player in my arms, laughing as I watched her struggle up the path with our double kayak on her shoulders.
When my Grandmother was executed for espionage, her cabin was left to us, but it was the only thing not confiscated by the Confederacy. It was large, with plenty of space, but so far out of the way that large gatherings were entirely out of the question. But we used it as a safe get away, her and I. The attic was a long narrow rectangle, though the intense steepness of the roof provided plenty of overhead space. We positioned the record player by the window that overlooked the lake, and every time we returned, we would add freshly collected records to the mahogany bookcase underneath it. Our favorite album was a compilation of Elvis hits that had somehow been separated from its cover, so we kept it in a makeshift felt sleeve that my Grandmother had sewn herself, and put the sleeve in a thin cardboard box that we had spent an afternoon painting with music notes, nature scenes, and random ducks and doodles.
Down in the first floor was the prized stone fireplace that was connected to a central heating system. The house didn’t have grid electricity, but was hooked up to the dam that formed the lake, and we spent one summer building a firewood shed in the back so that during our winter skating trips, we could stay warm and comfortable. We were clueless as to how dire these amenities would prove themselves to be.
Every now and again we would take a friend, but truly the place was ours, all ours, a little nook of hope in the vast decaying dystopia we call home, and this space has burrowed its way into my heart, into her heart, into our hearts. We went more and more frequently, until that little slice of land began to look less like a vacation and more like a last resort, more like a recourse. For one dark Thursday in December, we were sitting on the balcony watching the sun rise over the eastern Sierras, when a bright flash of light illuminated the sky and minutes later, the ground began to tremble like a lullaby.
We came back more and more frequently. First it was San Francisco, then Las Vegas, then San Jose, each with their own flashes, their own grandfather clock lullabies, their own radio obituary, and we packed the car with more valuable items — photo books, paintings, mattresses, tents, seeds, a collapsible greenhouse, a basket full of baby chicks. Then bunnies, and a goat. Then my brother passed, and we took in his daughter — my niece, my goddaughter — because godparents have to live up to their expectations these days. Nobody over 18 was safe, and we had been lucky enough to find a way off the grid.
The car pulled into the driveway with a trailer full of lost souls and there it rested, gaining rust and letting blackberry vines chain the tires to the earth.
When my Grandmother was executed for espionage, her cabin was left to us, but it was the only thing not confiscated by the Confederacy. It was large, with plenty of space, but so far out of the way that large gatherings were entirely out of the question. But we used it as a safe get away, her and I. The attic was a long narrow rectangle, though the intense steepness of the roof provided plenty of overhead space. We positioned the record player by the window that overlooked the lake, and every time we returned, we would add freshly collected records to the mahogany bookcase underneath it. Our favorite album was a compilation of Elvis hits that had somehow been separated from its cover, so we kept it in a makeshift felt sleeve that my Grandmother had sewn herself, and put the sleeve in a thin cardboard box that we had spent an afternoon painting with music notes, nature scenes, and random ducks and doodles.
Down in the first floor was the prized stone fireplace that was connected to a central heating system. The house didn’t have grid electricity, but was hooked up to the dam that formed the lake, and we spent one summer building a firewood shed in the back so that during our winter skating trips, we could stay warm and comfortable. We were clueless as to how dire these amenities would prove themselves to be.
Every now and again we would take a friend, but truly the place was ours, all ours, a little nook of hope in the vast decaying dystopia we call home, and this space has burrowed its way into my heart, into her heart, into our hearts. We went more and more frequently, until that little slice of land began to look less like a vacation and more like a last resort, more like a recourse. For one dark Thursday in December, we were sitting on the balcony watching the sun rise over the eastern Sierras, when a bright flash of light illuminated the sky and minutes later, the ground began to tremble like a lullaby.
We came back more and more frequently. First it was San Francisco, then Las Vegas, then San Jose, each with their own flashes, their own grandfather clock lullabies, their own radio obituary, and we packed the car with more valuable items — photo books, paintings, mattresses, tents, seeds, a collapsible greenhouse, a basket full of baby chicks. Then bunnies, and a goat. Then my brother passed, and we took in his daughter — my niece, my goddaughter — because godparents have to live up to their expectations these days. Nobody over 18 was safe, and we had been lucky enough to find a way off the grid.
The car pulled into the driveway with a trailer full of lost souls and there it rested, gaining rust and letting blackberry vines chain the tires to the earth.