Vacant, lost and found

When I was a child, my cousin Katie and I would hide on the kitchen steps and suck grape juice from our pink curlers. We'd sit with our shiny metal mugs filled with tart purple juice, stick our curlers into it, swirl it around and suck the juice from the curler.

It sounds disgusting now, but to a 4-year-old hiding out from Mom it was probably good, dirty kid fun.

And there was so much fun to be found at Grandpa's cabin.

Outside Katie and I would chase army ants with our Tonka trucks. In needle filled dirt, we'd sit in our overalls and push trenches through the red dirt. The ants scattered. In the distance, we could hear the forbidden creek wind its way down the moutain and away from my grandpa's cabin.

These were our summers in Butte Meadows. Sixteen people crammed into a four-bed room cabin. Pancakes, trips to the M&M store, army ants and pink curlers.

And then one day it was all gone.

My grandpa's heart couldn't take it any more.

On the day he'd decided to dig the new well by hand, he'd all but sold it in his head-- the cabin my great grandfather had built on Fetcher's Flat, the cabin my great uncle had taken down board by board when Sierra Pacific told the family the cabin had to go, and that same cabin my he'd added onto with his own hands.

He knew the only person who'd swing a shovel with him wasn't even his son, only a son-in-law that saw him as a father. He knew his own kids would be too busy reading books or going for walks, but he did it any way.

And one day in a fit of rage, he threw his shovel down and sold the cabin for pennies to a young guy in his 20s.

I cried as we drove away, wishing my father had lived closer so grandpa would have had some help.

For 29 years I watched as another man lived in that cabin with his partner. I waited for them to change it. Paint it purple, tear down the bunk houses-- anything-- just make it "not ours." But they never did. They never even gave it a new roof-- only let the termites dine on it and the rats dance on my great-grandmother's iron bed under the stairs.

This weekend I drove to my mother's cabin just down the road from "the old cabin."There was a sale pending sign in front. He hadn't even called us though we had a place just miles away.Was he bitter because the history everyone knew wasn't his "history?" For 29 years he'd known of three grown adults, five little girls and two boys who wanted it back, and yet he didn't call.

I went to visit him. I wasn't going to, but my daughter wanted to walk through "our ancestor's cabin." Tears in my eyes, I called up to him. He was on the roof.

I was sort of surprised that he let me tour the old cabin. I ws more surprised he'd kept it preserved like a museum. Nothing had changed-- not even the furniture.

"I hope this sale goes through because I don't want to have moved all my furniture out for nothing," he said.

The way he emphasized "My" felt like a be twisting it's stinger in my arm, and I think I visbily flinched-- grandma's chair, the funny side table, the swirly double bed headboard upstairs.

"I've lived here for 29 years," he said. "My parents visited, my grandparents visited-- why do you want this cabin?"

"My grandfather built it," I said.

And this is when I realized, my cabin was real estate. It wasn't a shrine. I wanted it-- my heart ached I wanted it so badly, but as I looked at the termite damage and felt the spongey floors, I realized it would cost me my house. Would I trade my children's home for pink curlers on the kitchen steps?

No. I couldn't do it by myself, but my cousins and I could go in on the cabin together-- or maybe my mother could help me.

The guy said he might be able to push it out of escrow because the buyers were having trouble getting a loan.

I called my family and told them the good news. No one was interested.

And so, what could I do?

I walked through one last time and looked at that cabin as though I was four years old-- the narrow steps, the pine cabinets, the view of the creek, grandma's chair. It would all be gone next week, and I'd never be able to walk through this "shrine" again because the man was taking it with him-- all the contents-- and the new owners were a young family who would no doubt change it and make it their own.

I was glad. If it were changed, somehow it wouldn't be lost to me.

So much for conclusions!

I just wanted to drop in for a sec before I take off again.

Last week my husband went duck hunting. It's his annual hunting trip with the boys. I'm not exactly sure what they do their. I can only imagine them sitting around a campfire comparing their plastic duck farms. Some people call these farms decoys, but I really think the men never quite matured past the playing with "Little People" stage of life. These guys have as many types of ducks as Barbie has outfits. We've got enticing ducks, swimming ducks, duck butts (feeding ducks), sleeping ducks, mega ducks, walking ducks, roto ducks that sort of fly and confidence ducks. Each serve some sort of twisted purpose in this sport of duck hunting.

Anyway, my husband came home after six weeks away, ordered a mountain of dirt for our presod lawn and then promptly left for his trip-- you got it after only four days at home. Strangely, I was OK with this trip. What I didn't count on were my children wigging out because dad was MIA-- again. Crying, fighting and back-talking were the words of the day. By the time he returned from his extended weekend of drinking, shooting at things and playing with fire, I was an angry woman.

"So did you have a good time?"I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Thanks for letting me go."
"Well, I'm glad for you. I really am because while you were gone the kids completely flipped out. they got mouthy. They wouldn't clean their rooms. You know all I want is a clean house and a happy family, but I can't have that because they are angry and won't pick up after themselves. All they wanted was you and I couldn't give it to them." (15 minutes later I stopped talking and took a bath).

I was doubly angery because a dear friend had died the day before he left on his trip and I couldn't find a sitter so I could go to the funeral. I tried going with three kids in tow, but my 2-year-old acted like a 2-year-old so I had to leave.And so I was mad about that too.

And so, my husband feels guilty. What do husbands do when they feel guilty? They lay sod and decide to plan a vacation.

Now I have a gorgeous lawn, and we're leaving for Oregon today to go to Coos Bay and Newport. Sorry Oregon buddies it was so spur of the moment, I didn't get a chance to contact anyone. However, I don't think he'd be game for socializing anyway. He thinks this blogging thing is bizarre and unhealthy. Oh well!

I hope to catch up on blog reading before I leave, but I probably won't get to read much if any because I have to pack-- and pay attention to my duck-killing husband.


PS-- If there are errors in this text, please don't point them out-- I haven't edited or even read this post (as I didn't on the other one). I'm just trying to keep this blog on life support until I can be a good blogging buddy again.

What a week!

I feel like a squirrel who can't remember where he buried the nuts. It's been a sundae of a week-- chilly, sweet, syrupy and full of a bunch of nuts. Brain freeze is the word of the day.

Anyway, the good news is my husband FINALLY came home. The bad news is I had to get out of my bunny slippers and clean the house.

And so he walked through the door and I'd like to say the house sparkled like the Mr. Clean was my personal bald-headed servant, but my house only looked like it was on the verge of inhabitablity 9I don't know if that is a word, but it works for me). The floors were clean, but dull. The counters-- dull. The clutter-- still existed. The kids' rooms-- unvaccumed. The laundry pile-- contained to the laundry room. Oh well, welcome home honey. I need some sleep.

Of course, I didn't get any. My husband barely got any-- and no it wasn't because he just got home and we had "a lot of catching up to do." No Nikki-- the 2-year-old terror-- decided she wanted to sleep with Daddy. Our night was a revolving door, a carousel with squeaky door music and a kid that didn't want to ride and two parents who just wanted off. By 3:30 a.m. she was snug in our bed and hubby was in a recliner. I know shame, shame, shame. Super Nanny would not be proud, but we just got too darn"dizzy" and who can think straigh in a fog.

Out of the fog and into our presod lawn we went the next day. Yes, hubbers decided we needed a couple truckloads of worm dirt so he could spend the day shoveling. I dressed the kids in mud clothes and tossed them into the mountain of madness. They were black within an hour. My dull floors looked like fancy marble (until you walked on them and realized that was dirt swirled on the wood and tile).

The sod gets delivered on Monday!!! It only took five years, but I'm finally getting a lawn.

The rest of the week was spent studying for Spanish. I had an exam and a paper due this week-- yikes! And so I stayed up late every night so I could study. My poor husband spent the week doing dad duty. He got up early, dressed the kids. packed their lunches and shipped two of them off to school. Then he did homework with Maggie at night. He even volunteered at the school and-- cleaned the house.

I must say I am the luckiest gal in the world.

Oh yeah and did I mention he is H-O-T--- HOT!!! A summer fighting fires does a body good. Of course I am now the girl in the mall with the hot guy-- and every wonders "how did SHE get him?" I ask myself this every day.

I have to go I will conclude later.