I was at the cabin recently and –

Wait. Have I not told you about the cabin? Oh, my friend.

Pull up a chair. We need to talk.

My husband’s family has a cabin his grandfather built in the woods. It is rustic, the cabin. A back-to-nature sort of place.

Indoor plumbing is a recent addition. No WiFi – don’t be ridiculous; we only just got a DVD player – and no cable. Limited cell phone service, like a bad horror movie MacGuffin.

I used to go to the cabin all the time. But the kids started working weekends and that was the end of that. But I went up, a few weeks ago. The first time in almost a year. And was reminded of how much I love the cabin in autumn.

I mean, sure. The fall months still see an errant bug in the shower, and I’ll chase after my father-in-law to kill it because serpentine bugs are where I draw the line.

And yes. There was that time I pulled back the sheets of my bunk bed to find a mouse made himself a lovely little home beneath my blanket. Yeah. We sleep in bunk beds. The cabin is like every summer camp movie ever made.

Then there was that fly in the tea kettle. He just plopped into my mug one morning, all dead next to my tea bag.

And of course there’s my hair, which is too blonde for the iron-rich tap water and too fine to skip washing. So I use a jug of stream water, and I stand on the cold concrete porch, and I flip my head upside down in the brisk air. And shampoo my hair right there in the woods, like some latter-day Laura Ingalls, so the blonde hair I pay so handsomely for stays that way. Because using the shower means becoming a redhead. And my skin is too pale and splotchy and English for me to pull off red hair.

So you’re right, you’re right. All those things are, as my teens might say, a bit extra. But. But.

There’s a lovely cast iron fireplace, and the fire is so welcoming – even in the middle of the night when our beagle decides bears be damned, it’s time to go out! Let’s explore the woods! For a really long time!

And no cable means no Good Morning America. Instead of curling up with George Stephanopoulos, I tuck myself into the corner of the sofa closest to the fireplace, my book and tea in hand. Well, my book, tea, and dead fly in hand.

In the evening, we take a narrow, overgrown path literally called Back Road. It leads to the cozy pub where we’re greeted by name, my kids are brought cheese for dipping, well, everything, and the bartender buys me a shot on my birthday.

So I was enjoying the tea and the pub and the random beagle expeditions at the cabin a few weeks ago. After dinner at the pub, I headed to my bunk. I always sleep well at the cabin, my beagle curled beside me and my phone incapable of receiving my mom’s middle-of-the-night calls.

Story for another day, gang. Story for another day.

I changed, eagerly anticipating the respite of my bunk. That was when I saw it. A spiderweb, spun in the legs of the charming stool just high enough to rest my book when I’m settled in my bunk. Beneath the web, a pile – pile – of insect carcasses lay on the floor. It was like I’d stumbled into the aftermath of arachnid Thanksgiving.

And I remembered something, something I’d forgotten when I stopped going to the cabin regularly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? A year without the cabin feels fine now that I’ve experienced the gluttony of a spider left to its own devices next to my bunk. That, my friends, will take a year to forget. And that is fine by me. 

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