The Cabin Down the Road

I sat in the passenger seat with a lap of hot pizza boxes. The dreariness of that Sunday gave the air a chill unfitting for a spring day, thus perfectly suited for a warm pizza-scented cardboard blanket.

As we neared the entrance to our neighborhood, we saw the sign in the yard. The truck abruptly swerved us into the gravel driveway almost before we could form a complete thought, much less put words to it. This old truck of my husband’s is a bloodhound on a scent. An excellent hunter. It can effortlessly sniff out and follow a trail leading to garage sales, estate sales, junk yards, wood scrap piles, tossed furniture, you name it. Then, with just as little effort, it will flash its puppy eyes and work its negotiating charm until the tailgate is opened and the bed filled with the most random items imaginable. But apparently looks can be deceiving. I’m informed that these items have a purpose and will inevitably be given a second life. All part of the charm. 

I drive by this place every single day. I have voiced it several times and thought it more times than I can count. “I sure would love to see inside that cabin.”

Well, I guess if you think something enough and have a bloodhound truck, some obscure wishes can come true. I didn’t care that my stomach was growling for that pizza in my lap, my heart yearned to visit the wooden cabin that has daily caught my eye and captured my imagination. 

The old-fashioned woods-surrounded dwelling and the newness of the compact neighboring areas are juxtaposed in both era and geographical layout. Worlds colliding. Our community may be a suburb of a larger city, but the hub of this suburb is right down the road. This quiet cabin tucked in the woods seems miles apart from the hustle of businesses that are ever-growing just a mile away. 

We pulled in and parked just past the two signs that seemed to be strangely contrasting as well. While the estate sale sign conveyed that everything must go, the “coming soon” realty sign was ushering in the new.

When we stepped through the door into a living area with a fireplace large enough for our crew of five to fit in, I knew instantly that I was in for a treat. The intention of the open house that day was for guests to survey the items for sale, but I could not peel my eyes off all the details of craftsmanship as I walked from room to room. The house is very modest and simple, yet boasts such rich detail of wood beams, multiple brick fireplaces, electric wall sconces that emit a candlelight vibe, wood doors with iron hinges and handles, and worn wood floors and stairs that display years of footsteps. I found myself trying to guess how much this house will be listed for, with not even the faintest idea of a ballpark range. 

We discovered that the homeowner’s late husband designed and built the house by hand in the seventies. I loved and appreciated it even more after learning this. And upon meeting the owner herself, my mind flashed to the life this house might have held within its lovingly built walls, to all the changes it’s witnessed in its surrounding landscape.

Now, I know the deed states 1976 but it felt like 1876 as I enthusiastically explored. Why does my heart long for the simple way of life while fully engaging in the advanced technologies (and quick takeout pizza joints) of our modern age? 

But isn’t that a strange paradox in life? We have at our disposal every convenience we need to make life easy, yet we seemingly have less time and create chaos.

While my fascination with the old often leaves me wondering if I was born in the wrong era, I know I was made for such a time as this. One thing's for certain, this after-church pit stop with my bloodhound truck-driving man would not have existed without the modern medicine that is keeping him alive. I ponder this as I climb back up into the cabin of his truck. 

Yep, I’d say it’s a good time to be alive.

But I will go on appreciating those nods to simpler days that are sprinkled throughout my life… and my drives. And try to leave enough time and space for exploring. Pizza can always be reheated.

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