Right before I was born my parents and sister moved into a little house in Oak Hill, West Virginia. It had two tiny bedrooms, a small living room, a kitchen, a bathroom and a laundry room. It was at the end of a dirt road and there were woods all around. Only one other house was in sight, the Johnsons’ house. The Gravelys’ house wasn’t too far away, but their house was hidden by trees. There were woods in front of us, beside us, and just beyond the Johnsons’ house. Behind our lot was an open field.
The Johnsons had two kids, but they were both a good deal older than me. The Gravelys had some teenagers, too, but my parents were afraid of them and insisted that my sister and I not talk to them. It was the late 60’s, and the Gravely kids and their friends had adopted the hippie style of dress, and they drove around in an old wreck of a car. My parents were convinced they were on drugs, and they believed this meant that they were wild maniacs. I’ll never forget waking up one morning and finding their old junker in the backyard. It turns out they had been out joyriding the night before and their car stalled…in our backyard. Yes, they had been driving around in our backyard. Maybe my parents had reason to be concerned.
I can remember how isolated that house was, how the house and the yard seemed like a private island. But as the years went by, the neighborhood grew up around us and it became much less woodsy. The trees around our house were cut down because the house was supposedly too damp. Several trailers were installed in the field behind our house. The farm at end of the road was sold and a hundred nearly identical houses were built on the land. The woods in front of us were cut down and at first two houses were built there, and then two more.
Even though our financial situation was very tenuous and we lived very modestly, we had a small, rustic cabin near Sherwood Lake. It was a family owned property. My father and grandfather owned shares, as did several cousins and a great uncle. It was built as a hunting cabin in the 50’s with a main room that served as a dormitory and a kitchen. There was no indoor plumbing or electricity, and the cabin didn’t merely seem isolated, it truly was. The closest town was over an hour’s drive away and you had to go down a winding mountain road to get there. When several family members with shares died, my father and grandfather believed they could never enjoy the cabin again, so they sold their shares--a decision they both regretted.
These two places were home to me when I was very young, and I’m sure that my desire to have a cabin in the woods is rooted in my experience of these two places. One place was lost and the other was transformed, so there’s a part of me that wants to go home again, home to the woods.
The Johnsons had two kids, but they were both a good deal older than me. The Gravelys had some teenagers, too, but my parents were afraid of them and insisted that my sister and I not talk to them. It was the late 60’s, and the Gravely kids and their friends had adopted the hippie style of dress, and they drove around in an old wreck of a car. My parents were convinced they were on drugs, and they believed this meant that they were wild maniacs. I’ll never forget waking up one morning and finding their old junker in the backyard. It turns out they had been out joyriding the night before and their car stalled…in our backyard. Yes, they had been driving around in our backyard. Maybe my parents had reason to be concerned.
I can remember how isolated that house was, how the house and the yard seemed like a private island. But as the years went by, the neighborhood grew up around us and it became much less woodsy. The trees around our house were cut down because the house was supposedly too damp. Several trailers were installed in the field behind our house. The farm at end of the road was sold and a hundred nearly identical houses were built on the land. The woods in front of us were cut down and at first two houses were built there, and then two more.
Even though our financial situation was very tenuous and we lived very modestly, we had a small, rustic cabin near Sherwood Lake. It was a family owned property. My father and grandfather owned shares, as did several cousins and a great uncle. It was built as a hunting cabin in the 50’s with a main room that served as a dormitory and a kitchen. There was no indoor plumbing or electricity, and the cabin didn’t merely seem isolated, it truly was. The closest town was over an hour’s drive away and you had to go down a winding mountain road to get there. When several family members with shares died, my father and grandfather believed they could never enjoy the cabin again, so they sold their shares--a decision they both regretted.
These two places were home to me when I was very young, and I’m sure that my desire to have a cabin in the woods is rooted in my experience of these two places. One place was lost and the other was transformed, so there’s a part of me that wants to go home again, home to the woods.
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