"Reset"

Paul and Mom July 1992

            Our cabin near Leakey, Texas rests within a remote area where the hills cup around, making cellphones unusable once we turn off of FM 337 onto Rim Rock Road. My parents purchased the land over thirty years ago, long before cell phones existed, when they were about the same age as we are now. I remember lecturing them to wait until we arrived before they unloaded the supplies from one of the many projects we tackled together during those first years. Without fail, they ignored my warnings. We’d pull up to find they’d maneuvered plywood out of the truck bed on their own. Dad often quipped that they weren’t invalids!

Mom and Dad July 1992

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David and Dad July 1992

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Finished porch-July 1992

            After Dad died, spending a weekend at the cabin tumbled all of us into grief. We attempted a few trips with Mom, but she cried each time. Once she said, “I see the ghosts of who we were walking outside.” By that time, Huntington’s disease had her wheelchair bound. She’d last a few hours, and then ask for us to bring her home. Once Mom died, we made a few trips up alone where we made a few necessary repairs, cut down a few ever-intrusive cedars, and down-shifted our visit to nights of board games or stargazing. About six years ago, our Escape Hybrid needed extensive and expensive repairs. Because of its age and mileage, we found ourselves purchasing a car that couldn’t handle the rough Rim Rock Road terrain. David’s parents and siblings assured us that we could exchange our car with either their SUV or truck whenever we wanted to make a trip; but in the usual manipulative dance of narcissists, their offer proved shallow.

            For three years, the cabin remained untouched. Last May, David’s cousin and her husband took us up for a weekend. Someone had broken into the place and tossed things around searching for valuables that didn’t exist. This same cousin took me back last November for another quick visual check. Each short view left me determined to get a new SUV, which we did at the end of December.

            This weekend we carefully examined some areas of wood rot in the screened porch area. We tossed around ideas of making the repairs ourselves, but I know that’s unrealistic. We debated over the possibility of taking the area down and just having a huge deck. We discussed finding a local company to hire to do the repairs. At the moment, the damaged area doesn’t hold the danger of falling in on us. We have time to decide the best course. In the back of my mind, I hear my own voice warning my parents, “Wait until we get there. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Our hidden driveway January 29, 2022

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  One task accomplished! January 29, 2022

            That past caution reminded us to limit our visit to one major task. David focused on cutting the knee-high grass that covered the driveway and cleared some cedar. I relined the driveway with rocks.

            Both of us used the sunshine and hard labor to step back and away from work and world. We hit “reset” to return home recharged and ready.

 Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“Koi and the Cabin”

Koi ignoring his "pilow"

              We thought we broke Koi this weekend at the cabin.

              He sauntered down the ramp a little after 8 AM on Saturday morning and followed a safe distance behind David’s weed-eating sweep. His single, sharp bark drew my attention from stacking rocks to our driveway entrance.

            “I’m taking Koi for a walk!” I called to David before following our dog down the steep incline towards the dry creek bed. In previous years, this section of road washed out with every thunderstorm that traversed the hill country. Sometime over the last few years, the county built up the entire section of road, possibly enough to prevent water from damaging the area in the future. Still, it’s a precarious walk for my recovering knee. For Pom-monster Koi’s little feet, it’s a challenge he tackles slowly now that he’s over twelve-years-old.

            This time, he walked and sniffed, and sniffed and walked down the slope with ease while I clumped along behind, careful to keep my weight even on each leg. At one point, he wanted to leave the road to investigate, but a high berm prevented him from crossing over. He yapped at me to help him up and over.

            “No. We’re staying on the road,” I instructed, and then suggested we return to the cabin.

            Koi refused to follow me when I pivoted to go back. We stood in stalemate for a few seconds, and then I relented.

            Our walk continued for a few hundred feet more before I suggested, “Cabin? Water?”

            The offer of water stopped his forward push. It took us about ten minutes to reach the cabin door. Both of us lapped cold water before heading back outside. To prevent Koi from accidentally laying in prickly pear, David pulled out the mat all of our dogs use at the cabin. Koi ignored it, though, and stretched out on the rock hardened ground to watch me work.

            When we broke work to eat lunch, he drank a ton of water and nibbled at his bits. He trailed behind us as David tried out our new saw on some cedar. He vanished when I feebly attempted to organize our junk pile. David found him on the porch out of the midday sun, and he resisted the suggestion to go inside on his own.

            About 4:30, we headed in to wash up for dinner with Koi leading the way. He signaled that he wanted help onto the lower bunkbed. David lifted him onto its foot. His eyes closed immediately as he sighed.

            Koi didn’t move when pork chops sizzled. He didn’t come to the table to beg for food. While we took a sink bath, he remained silent and still. He ignored our offer for his evening chicken.

            By our bedtime, his deep and motionless sleep made David nudge him awake to see if he wanted to go potty. He closed his eyes again. One of us checked him periodically all night as he slept the sleep of the dead. Sometime during the night, David moved into the bed with him to keep better watch.

            Then about 4:30 in the morning, he stood up on the bed and yipped to go outside. The twelve hour sleep restored him. He wasn’t broken after all.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman