Our Paper Cabin
Copyright 2022 by Freda Wooten
Photo courtesy of Pixabay.
people donít think about the things collected inside their
home. But Tom and I are deep sentimental creatures. I can testify;
the old house we live in has more to say than the people I met
recently. More to show than the pompous neighbors who seem to stay
entertained by estranged rumors, local gossip and eerie
the foundation they built on money, our home has real character. It
houses some of the most intriguing collections of my life.
swing beneath itís covered porch as morning rises, spreading
golden fingers over the wild mustard and milkweed that greet me from
the busy mountain meadows.
cherries and poplar trees form a half emerald moon around the lawn.
The tin roof pings overhead as chestnuts leap from their branches and
burst at the steeple.
watch the live events; wild grapes that swing like beaded ponytails
on a windy day, a red bird crafting a nest at the corner of our tool
shed and blackberry blooms forming archways for honey bees.
Hummingbirds flitter near the wood railing, supping from their
marvel at their page flipping sounds and my mind soon tarries. Stress
flows away like the trickling stream as I sail back to the day Tom
and I moved into a corn crib which had been used for nearly a
century to store livestock feed. The place was never meant to be a
home for anyone but Tom and I were dead set on the project.
our first year together, I called our house a paper cabin because we
had used cardboard boxes to help insulate its airy walls. They hadnít
been chinked and winter was brutal that year. During preparations to
make the place livable I often questioned my ability to stay
motivated but grittiness pushed me through.
back now, I appreciate how each oak board lain to uneven floor
crackles with loving history.
bedroom, once a bare dirt floor squared between uncovered locust
poles, soaked up all the warm memories of our honeymoon. Images of us
swim in the night as I sprawl against grandmaís feather
at the ceiling we painted together and the fan carved from maple, I
recall every fiery kiss and soft whisper that folded into the
splintered crevices. Every inch of our home is like my personal scrap
book. The images brought to life by total companionship. We have
since papered and textured the walls, installed wood flooring and
carpet but the paper cabin ripples with the romance it stores. And
it whispers to me like a sweet song, one that replays when long days
the value of this house will never reach an equivalent of all we put
into it, it says more than most people. It whispers like the wind
sweeping the cliffs. It reminds me that like the grass, woven into
blue-green carpet around its ankles, I belong here. And we are at
Wooten is an author, poet and photographer residing in Southwest
Virginia. Being surrounded by nature and wildlife along the
Appalachian inspires her work. Her most recent work can be viewed at
The Ilanot Review, Poets Choice and Red Flag Poetry to name a few.
of the message
won't know where to send it.)
Preservation Foundation, Inc., A Nonprofit Book Publisher