Weekend Wanderer: Do I Want to Live Somewhere Rural? 


weekend wanderer

Something disturbing happened to me last week. 

Wait. That’s not accurate.  

I did something disturbing last week. 

Yes. That’s better. I did something disturbing. Something I don’t understand.  

You see — well — you guys know my husband’s family has a cabin. 

And you know how I feel about that cabin. 

It’s not that I hate it. I don’t. My husband’s grandfather built it, and I loved my husband’s grandfather. 

But, well, I don’t exactly love The Cabin, either.  

That’s not really a secret. 

It’s not the hunting. I’m fine with the hunting. I really am.  

Well, the dead game hanging right outside The Cabin door does take some getting used to. But it’s cool.  

And I’m fine with the sleeping arrangements, too. I mean, sure. Sharing a bunk bed with my husband means he’s always on top. 

The top bunk, I mean. He’s too tall for the bottom bunk perfectly suited to me. 

Jeez. What’s with the dirty thoughts, guys? I mean, I can direct you to a few shows if that’s where your head is. Haven’t I mentioned Outlander enough? There are, like, oodles of naked people in Outlander

I’m not saying I don’t occasionally share the top bunk with my husband. Just keep in mind, when you’re picturing it, that my cardinal rule for The Cabin is akin to the cardinal rule at the pool hall.  

Always keep one foot on the floor in the pool hall. And always keep one article of clothing on at The Cabin. 

Yes. I shower wearing shoes. 

You should also keep in mind, when you’re picturing us sharing that top bunk, that it’s a twin bed frame. 

And that he’s nearly a foot taller and five stone bigger than me. 

You know, the mattress on that top bunk is a bit wider than the frame. I mean, you’d think The Cabin wall would keep the mattress from folding down, down, down. 

You’d be wrong. As wrong as you are to picture whatever you’re picturing happening in The Cabin’s top bunk. 

Just stop. 

Zero percent of my children were conceived there. So just stop. 

Showering with shoes on doesn’t exactly scream bodice-ripper, you know? 

It’s a fun Tetris-Twister hybrid, keeping myself in that top bunk. I brace my knee against the wall, tighten my core, put my left hand on red, and hope for one of those L-shaped pieces. 

The one facing left. The right-facing L-shape will not stop me from sliding down the wall and straight into my bottom bunk. 

Sometimes, I just sleep in my father-in-law’s room at The Cabin.  

Good grief. My father-in-law isn’t there when I sleep in his room! Please. Just go watch some Outlander so I can get on with this story without you turning it into Dynasty. 

Anyway, I left my underwear in my father-in-law’s hat once and that was kind of the end of my sleeping in his room. 

I’m sorry if you don’t know that story. We’ll tackle it another day. I mean, we’re five hundred words into this thing and I haven’t even gotten to today’s story yet. 


The Cabin weekend, of course, quickly fell apart. Our son had to work. Our daughter had to meet for a group physics project. 

“It’s not going to happen,” my husband sighed. “The kids have too much going on. It’s not going to happen.” 

Well. If I can keep myself in a collapsing bunk bed, I can get us all to The Cabin. 

We’re going, I told my husband. We’re going. He could go up a day ahead of us if he wanted. Get everything ready.  

Now you’re wondering what needs to be done to get The Cabin “ready,” aren’t you? 

Good. You watched some Outlander. We can keep this thing clean. 

Not that I’m opposed to where you’re trying to take it. But, well, my editors have “rules” and they don’t think I’m “cute” or “funny” when I break those rules. 

I know, right? I am absolutely cute and funny when I break those rules.  

Back to readying The Cabin. The water has to be turned on. As does the electricity. The mouse traps have to be scuttled so our beagle doesn’t spring them on his tongue when he eats the peanut butter. 

The peanut butter stored in The Cabin’s kitchen cupboard isn’t for you, by the way. You can have mice and peanut butter, or no mice and no peanut butter.  But you can’t have no mice and all the peanut butter. 

That’s just the way it is. 

“I’ll have dinner and a beer waiting for you,” my husband said. And I’m here to tell you nothing tastes better than a beer at The Cabin. 

So the kids and I headed up, the evening cold and rainy. As promised, a hearty stew waited for me. It was good, in the way a homemade, stick-to-your-ribs, rainy day stew made by someone who loves you tends to be. 

“What kind of meat is this?” I asked my husband, because a girl can usually count on Cabin meat being procured near The Cabin. 

And we don’t have supermarkets. 

Wait. What just happened? 

“Who — who am I?” I thought. “I fought to be here. I expect to eat game. Who am I?” 

I mean, I actually — on this Cabin trip — I actually got the dead bugs out of the shower myself.  

Does hot yoga make The Cabin more appealing? Is this how conquering my scuba fears manifests? Am I, like tens of thousands of Americans, eager for rural life? 

It’s like being in that bunk bed — I’m propping up the old me so The Cabin doesn’t swallow her whole. 

Well, I’m going to Shyamaween dressed as Data from Star Trek and I feel like Cabin people don’t surf the internet for gold body paint so they can look like an android. 


The L-shaped piece holding me together. 

The Cabin hasn’t won. 


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