It might be 2016, but at the cabin it could be 1956. With the exception of a few solar panels that my Uncle Steve has installed on his place, the cabin remains as rustic as it was when it was purchased in the late 50s. There is no electricity, no telephone, no central air or heating. Some days if you have the right mobile phone and are standing at just the right spot you might get a bar or two, but other than those solar panels or that intermittent cell service a trip to the cabin means going off the grid completely.
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Sometime in my twenties we spent Thanksgiving at the cabin for the first time. That year, we cooked a turkey on the grill as the one nod to our previous holiday traditions. Each year that followed up there, the meal improved and expanded. By our last year at the cabin as a family, in 1995, we prepared an entire Thanksgiving feast, although the stuffing was from a box.
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When I look at books or blogs about home décor I fantasize about what the cabin could look like with a new this or a painted that.
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You might know that I've been working on a novel for the last 18 months. It's set at the cabin, which I've mainly fictionalized in the book. There are a few exceptions, including a scene that includes a shotgun I found in a closet once and never saw again.
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On the few occasions when my grandfather wasn’t at the cabin to cook breakfast for us and my father was entrenched in a project by the time we were ready to eat we had to fend for ourselves. That usually meant cereal.
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At the cabin, my grandfather was a short-order cook extraordinaire: frying potatoes, toasting bread over an open flame and cooking eggs by the dozen without ever breaking a yolk—and in cast iron skillets no less.
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Breakfast is the most important meal of the day at the cabin. We eat it mid-morning and it keeps us going all day.
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Last month we spent the weekend splitting wood, which was fine by me because the only thing I love more than stacking firewood is splitting it.
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I asked Jack to finish this sentence: When I think of the cabin, I think of BLANK.
We both agreed it was WORK. It was work when my grandfather and his brothers carved out the original footprint. It was work when my father built our cabin alongside his father. It is the work we do to maintain the cabin every time we visit.
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We went to the cabin at the end of last month for the first time since fall. The first weekend of the year is always the best and the worst.
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The cabin story is a story of four Narlock men, their families and a never-to-be-fully-tamed 153 acres in the remote reaches of Mendocino County.
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