It's nine thirty. And you're in your dad's truck, your head
resting lightly on the window. It's summer, so he's got the air conditioner on
full blast, and you're wondering how much longer till you're there.
Back then an hour drive was a lifetime and
you didn't really appreciate the countryside or understand what nostalgia was.
So you're wondering and then you pull into
a little driveway and there's a gate, and you smile because you know that your
dad's going to get out of the truck and pull that gate open and then you'll
drive on a dirt road for a minute and then you'll see it there, behind the
sticky trees. Just waiting. It's blue and white, and compact. Doesn't seem like
that much house. But your grandfather put his work and sweat and hard-earned
money into this cabin. Felix's Cabin.
So you love it with all your heart because
everything about childhood bliss happened here. Before you were old enough to
miss it.
It's this cabin out West of Dallas. It's
one of my favorite places in the world. When I was a kid, we'd go there a lot
in the summer. I remember spending days at the nearby lake, getting stickers
caught in my foot and eating fried chicken on a beach towel. I remember my aunt
and uncle and grandparents getting drunker and drunker, my cousins and I
sitting on the floor of the living room, laughing at our parents making fools
of themselves.
It was a safe place, protected by cactus
and rattlesnakes that hid under sheds and beneath old boats. As we got older,
our dynamics changed. My cousin started bringing some of his friends along, and
we wanted to sit on the front porch, talking about other things while our
parents sat on the back porch, cursing or yelling or maybe even crying. I had a
crush on my cousin's friend Julio, and I remember he came along with us to the
cabin for my thirteenth birthday. And I always thought that was one my favorite
birthdays because Julio had teased and talked to me. I felt sixteen.
More years go by. I am sixteen now. I'll
start senior year in the fall. And we haven't stayed in the cabin for a long
time. For a while, Nellie, my grandfather's sister, was living there. And then
after that, the pipes needed to be fixed. And after that, the porch needed to
be repaired.
So I don't get to come out as often. And I
keep thinking that I'll get a chance to create vivid memories here. But more
often than not, the cabin is just a story I keep telling everyone about, not
one I get to live.
But dad says that he needs help with the
mowing. It's a good size piece of land. I go out there with him in May. I'm
going through old photo albums, and I'm so young in most of them. There are
fewer and fewer of us past the age of ten. And it makes me so sad to think
about all these photos just sitting here with dust and cobwebs their only
company. Swiss Family Robinson is still in the DVD player.
I guess we forgot to put it away the last time we were here.
I ask my dad how long until we can all
come out here again. He says soon. He always says soon. Soon is just a way of
getting me off his ass.
More years.
A few days ago my dad called me and told
me that my grandparents had finally got around to trying to sell the cabin. He
says it like I won't start tearing up. Like I won't start protesting, asking if
there's anything that can be done to keep that from happening. I, like most
people, have forged more emotional connections to houses than other people.
"We all gotta keep moving on. You'll
leave a lot of houses in your life Victoria, you can't cry about every single
one."
What do I miss about Texas this week? I
miss that country air and the smell of river water. The smell of moss and of
dirt in all your shoes and between your toes. I miss birthday parties and Fourth
of July celebrations.
I left a lot of houses, just like my dad
said. I've lived in seven different homes, said a lot of goodbyes. I just never
thought I would have to say goodbye to this home.
