I have always loved log cabins. Perhaps the romance started with the cabin my Gramps built. We didn't go often, but when we did, it seemed like a little secret, tucked as it was in some woods with only a narrow, bramble-guarded road to access it. I am not sure. But here's a telling fact. In collage, engaged to be married, I bought more log cabin magazines than bridal magazines. (Okay--I was an abnormal twenty-year old art student in the era immediately preceding the tattoo craze and when the University of Delaware had only 3 color monitors on campus. We had to make our own brand of fun.)
Skip to present or last week (close enough). I spent three days in a log cabin while chaperoning my daughter's class's environmental field trip. The log cabin bug (along with a few mosquitoes) bit me again. I love the simplicity. I kept taking pictures of the cabins and having visions of the television show Men in Trees where New Yorker and writer Marin Frist takes refuge and writes from her little cabin in Alaska. I can picture myself on my porch sitting in a steamer lounge chair with my laptop and a cup of dark roast. Perhaps a colorful shawl and most definitely a pug at my feet. There is something calming about a building that fits so perfectly within its environment. I am not an Americana, lodge-y type decorator. If I had a cabin, I'd offset the rough aesthetic with sleek modern furnishings and bold dashes of color. It would be more whimsy than outback.
The day after I returned from Camp Swatara, I met a friend for lunch. She was staying at her sister's log home while her home was being remodeled. So I got to see another take on log home living with a great kitchen and a beautiful deck overlooking a large pond. So is the universe trying to tell me something? I don't know. Yesterday, my in-laws returned from a trip to the Midwest to visit relatives and do some genealogy. They gave my daughter a T-shirt emblazoned with a graphic of the Lincoln Log Cabin.
Maybe I need to rent myself a little refuge and get to writing.