I grew up in a log cabin

I had humble beginings, in a rudimentary way. Just a snug little cabin, with a big stone fireplace. And one great room with bedrooms shooting off the outskirts. A small kitchen was on one side, and it had these terrible orange countertops. This time of year mom would get out her big roll of duct tape and visqueen (sp?) and go to town. I mean she'd seal off all the windows and cracks in the walls... the old cabin was literally a shack. But in my mind's eye, and in old creaky photo albums, I see a soft glow from the outside. It's dark, and I am peeping in the window as a child, face numb from playing outside too long. Crunchy snow drifting around, forming dust on my newly shoveled hockey rink. I remember the sweaty mittens, laid on the air vent below the dinner table to dry out. My sister and I would sit down there because it was the warmest place in the house and defrost ourselves. And two warm brown eyes and a sheet of blonde hair would appear sideways, handing us some hot cocoa. My mom would be cooking chili and cornbread, with candles all over the house and Vivaldi playing on the stereo. Sometimes it would be Led Zeppelin or the Beatles, but then my papa would come home from work and it would change. Andy Williams, or oldies. The clink of ice in their manhattans would softly chime, and he'd play hide and seek with us. Of course it ended in him finding us, tickle time....turning into tickle torture... turning into the all time worst "whisker scrub" on the belly. Or if he was feeling sweet, just a belly blaster and big airborn hug. We'd squeal, mom's ambiance would break, everyone would be in trouble, and dinner would be served. It was at this juncture that Amanda and I battled for stupid things like the wire-legged stool and our favorite spoon. There was only one of each of the aforementioned, and we both knew how special it was to have these things. Sitting by the airvent, on the wire-legged stool, with the magical special spoon...THAT was living large. God, I wish it were that simple now.
I have one small wooden peg from the floor of our old cabin. I saved it as we tore the thing down. It used to smell like home, but the scent is all gone now. I keep it with me to remind myself how I would like to have a cabin one day. I'd like to be the mom cooking chili, warming up my kids, listening to Vivaldi. I don't have to raise my kids there, but it wouold be nice to have a getaway place in the woods. It's been so cold here in California (44 tonight) and of course it has me thinking of my childhood. Michigan. More simple times. I am sitting in the middle part right now, not a kid and not a mom. Still learning to take care of myself and figuring out how I want to arrive at these massive goals. I must say, that after all my bitching and psychoanalysis and interpretations of everything under the sun... my folks did an amazing job raising us. And the bar is set high for the future. It used to scare me so much and now it really just gives me hope and strength.