Well, I didn’t get a lot of time to write this week, and then I forgot the little bit I did get written at home… So, no “Fiction Friday” today. But, I thought I might just throw out a couple paragraphs I wrote this fall about our cabin and land where I spent that surreal long weekend back in November.
It sits on 40 acres. It is one room, maybe 24′ x 12′. There are bunks and a hide-a-bed couch at one end, a woodstove for heat in the middle, and a quasi-kitchen and table at the other end. The ceilings are not seven feet high to conserve heat from the stove. There are cobwebs and dustballs everywhere. When I arrive, a woodrack by the stove is full of big chunks of birch. The main standing tree on the land is birch and for years a couple trees have been occasionally harvested to burn in the stove. It is heavy wood that will burn long once you get it going.The land is low and brushy and wet and it seemed to absorb all movement and all sound. And it served as a barrier. You can’t walk far into it without getting wet, lost or trapped in the alders.The Blue Hills are an old mountain range. Very old. Today they are defined by a couple ridges of hills a couple hundred feet high which appear blue when seen from the distance from which they can be seen in this otherwise low and flat country. They are mostly wooded, and much of it is public land, state forest and the such. They have been logged and relogged and rutted roads and trails dive into the trees from the main gravel roads frequently.
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