A Cabin Story

Last week the husband whisked the children and me away

to one of my most favorite childhood haunts.

The family cabin in the mountains of

Durango, Colorado.

And I wondered:

why has it been ten years since our last trip here?

I couldn't believe this was the first time I was introducing the children to this wonderland. Watching them brought back a flood of memories: days spent with my brothers and sisters and cousins wandering the mountains, warning each other not to pick the columbines- the state flower of Colorado- because, for sure there was a police man waiting just beyond the next towering aspen to apprehend any state flower-picking offender.

Time spent at the waterfall. Washing our hair in the man-made spillway, just up the road from the cabin.

Driving up to the top of the mountain to see the beautiful wildflowers and passing the old mine and the lone chimney- remnants of a burnt out house.

Exploring the meadow across the road from the cabin. The meadow that housed the remains of a pioneer cabin long since abandoned. Visiting the gravestone of the tiny pioneer who lost her life way too early.

Finding the old bottles from the saloon that once buzzed with life and, no doubt, drunk miners.

Remembering the old school that we used to visit and sit in the desks and drink the Mountain Dew supplied by the forest ranger there. What was her name? She was always around those hills, coming up for a visit with Grandma and Grandpa.

Grandpa, sitting in his chair in front of the huge picture window, taking in the view of the mountain. Grandma bathing us in the big silver tub by lantern-light.

Honeymooning with the husband and our first days of

happily ever after.

Those were some good days. All of them.

And so, we introduced the children to the wonder of the cabin.

And they loved it.

And we celebrated Grandma's 90th birthday

with song and laughter, skits and bonfires, food and camping, family and friends.

And it was magical.