It seems I see them everywhere now.
Little cabins.
They are such story tellers, aren't they? Both real and imagined tales could come straight out of this one.
How about that rock work, anchoring it to earth, and the cedar shakes gone weathered in shades of gray from deep to light, with open spaces of white window panes looking out here and there.
I'll bet thick white paint coats the pine plank walls and ceiling inside, some of it peeling here and there. There's an old iron bed covered deep in a crazy quilt, and hand-braided rugs stretch across the worn wood floor.There's a teeny bathroom with 50's auqua-colored porcelain fixtures and tiles running half-way up. There's a window over the tub. Just a tiny one.
I'll bet.
There are bark-cloth curtains at the windows and a paint-by-numbers of a buck deer hanging over the fireplace. A deeply-creased leather chair sits in one corner. A rocking chair rests in the other. A folding-leaf table and four chairs wait next to the one short counter that holds tiny sink, tiny propane stove, and tiny rounded-corner fridge, right next to the back door that has the window in the top half looking out to the wooden bird house hanging on the tree at the edge of that forest.
I'll bet.
Way back when, the maker of this cabin could see all this - could see in his mind just how it would be - before he even started.
I'll bet.
