I rented a small log cabin, and began life on my own. My children remained temporarily with their father until the courts and lawyers could figure out our snaggled mess. I missed them desperately and wrestled daily with the scary newness of living by myself. The cabin was small and dark, shaded by towering pine trees, and one of only three houses (one boarded up for the winter) on a dead end street that went downhill and ended at a pond. It was termed a “winter” rental, as the owners lived there in the summer, moved out on Labor Day. I would be there until Memorial Day when the owner would return and I’d need a place to live again. My life felt ruled by holidays. My belongings stayed in storage; I had my clothes.
It came fully furnished; I felt like I’d just dropped into a
stranger’s house and elected to live there, which is what I did. The two bedroom walls did not go all the way
to the ceilings, allowing for circulation of air in the summer. The living room was large, and carpeted in ugly
gold shag; the couch was brown plaid. There was a fireplace which I was not to
use, and a large deer head mounted high on the wall. I named him Walter and hung a wreath on him at
Christmas. The bathroom was delightful,
wood paneled and cozy with a big footed tub.
A tiny kitchen, and an even tinier added on room in the back both had
slanted floors so that it felt like you were falling into the rooms. It was
either enchantingly unique or the eeriest place ever. I had both reactions from
friends.
It was a long, lean winter.
I was awakened one night by a noise right outside my window.
The spotlight had gone on and shone brightly in
the window as well. A raccoon, pure white
in color, was sitting on a tree stump, enjoying the remains of my spaghetti
dinner from the overturned garbage can.
He was gracefully eating the strands with human like fingers, and completely
ignored my frantic banging on the window.
My neighbor’s lights were all on.
He seemed to never go to sleep. I went back to bed, pulling the covers
over my head.
In the cabin on my right lived a man named Greg. I called
him Mountain Man. He was a smallish
man, not as tall as I, with a trim build and longish brown curly hair. He told
me he was a Vietnam vet, and didn’t work anymore. He heated his log cabin with a
wood stove, which he often asked me in to see, but I never took him up on the
invitation. He said the temperature inside his house was seventy five to eighty
degrees in the wintertime. With no
curtains on his windows, and the sweltering temperatures he had to endure
(while I layered on more and more sweaters and sox) he habitually walked around
his house in his jockey shorts. In the brutal months of January and February,
he could be seen shirtless chopping wood in the backyard. I was unable to start
a measly fire and had to conserve oil, in order to pay the bill, so I could be
found wrapping myself in blankets to survive the winter. On several occasions,
in between laying out boxes of poison, and replacing them when they were empty,
I called to ask Greg to come over and empty my mouse traps, which he did, each
time resetting them, saying he didn’t mind at all. One time, as he was leaving, he handed me
something wrapped in a tissue. It was fragrant. “Do you smoke” he asked? (I’d
been smoking for years I thought to myself, but I’d never wrapped my Virginia Slims
in tissues)
One particularly frigid winter morning, a “friend” of mine
was attempting to make a quiet exit, but soon discovered his Camaro couldn’t
make it up the hill to the main road. It was a sheet of ice. Greg saw him struggling and came out to help,
then called to the garbage men to help, seeing them about to turn down from the
main road. My friend came in to get me; I was needed to sit in the trunk and
provide some weight to keep from skidding, while they pushed the car backwards
up the hill. Jumping out of the warm bed, I quickly threw on a long parka and
scarf and boots, but was wearing nothing underneath the coat. I sat in the trunk feeling naked and trashy with
three men pushing the car up the hill and my friend chuckling at my discomfort. After we got his car back on the main road
and he took off, I picked my way back down to the cabin, keeping to the snowy
sides, instead of the ice. I stopped to
thank Mountain Man as he stood in the
middle of the icy road, grateful for the woolen scarf that I had wrapped around
my face, so he couldn’t read my embarrassment.
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