Why do things have to change? Sometimes I wish time would just stop, stand still, not move on one more second, but then I realize I really wouldn't like that. Just the same, some things I really wish never had to change.
We started going to the cabin when I was two. I grew up there, all of my happy memories were centered there, and somehow, even when the rest of the world was going crazy, I believed it would always be there for me to go back to, to heal my aching heart, to give me a place to be safe, to make me happy. I never thought it would change.
Two days before the end of 2005, my parents and siblings and I got together for a family meeting. It was really a family party, with us laughing and joking and swapping stories and memories, until the end.
“I have some family business I'd like to discuss,” Dad told us during a lull in our laughter. We all calmed down and turned our attention to him, wondering what he wanted to talk to us about.
“I've been worrying about the cabin,” he began. “I think it might be time for us to sell it.”
My heart dropped right down to the bottom of my feet. What?
“I've been worrying about what will happen after mom and I die,” dad continued, as if the world hadn't just stopped. Right now we can share the cabin with everyone, but once your kids have kids, it's going to be a different matter, and I don't want the cabin to be a source of hard feelings between anyone in the family. Plus, it's getting old, and sooner or later it will need big repairs. Mom and I pay for the taxes and utilities, but after we're gone who will do that? Anyway, I think we need to discuss what we will do with it in the future, and consider the option of selling.”
The rest of my brothers and sisters were nodding their heads, and as soon as dad was done jumped in with suggestions and comments, but I just sat there on the couch, stunned. How could anyone consider getting rid of one of the biggest parts of our life?
Granted, I knew that most of the family didn't use the cabin much anymore. My brothers took their kids once in a while, but they were both really busy and didn't have time to go very often. My sister, Linda, went with her family now and then, but now that her husband was a doctor they really didn't have much free time. My youngest sisters hardly ever went to the cabin, their families would rather go to Disneyland than camping, and I understood that. Perhaps I took my kids to the cabin so often because we couldn't afford other vacations. But in my heart I knew I'd go to the cabin no matter what.
After listening to everyone talk for about half an hour, I finally decided I'd better make my feelings known. I didn't want dad to sell the cabin just because he thought no one really wanted it anymore.
“Can I say something, Dad?” I asked when it was my turn to speak. “I've listened to all your comments, and I think I understand your concerns about what will happen to the cabin in the future. In the end, I know it's not my choice what you do, the cabin belongs to you and mom, and I want you to know that I will go along with whatever you decide. But, just the same, I want you to know that I would hate it if you sold the cabin. I think the issues you've brought up could be handled in another way, and we should keep the cabin for our posterity. I would do whatever we needed to make that work out. But if you sell it, well, it would be really, really hard for me. The cabin is my happy place. The place I go when I am sad and hurting, even if it's only in my mind sometimes. All of my memories, everything I am, goes back to the cabin. It's who I am. Selling it would be like cutting out my heart and selling that. It would really, really, hurt.” I had to stop then, because I was choking on my tears and I couldn't go on without crying.
Dad, and everyone else listened to me, but I don't suppose what I said surprised them much. It also didn't solve any of the problems. After a few more minutes of discussion, dad suggested we table the issue for the moment.
“We'll talk about it some more later,” was his final comment.
Our party broke up soon after that. To tell you the truth, I didn't feel much like visiting anymore, anyway.
As we were saying goodbye and everyone was leaving, my brother, Phillip, came up to me and gave me a big hug. I was a little surprised. I can't say that we had always been the best of buddies, because we'd had our moments back when we were growing up. Only two years apart, it was Phillip who knew how to press my buttons and get me angry, and we had more than our share of arguments and fights back in the good old days. We'd both grown up since then, but we still weren't necessarily the closest siblings.
“I'm sorry, Gale,” Phil told me as he hugged me tight. “I know how you feel about the cabin, and if I could, I would buy it myself and save it just for you so you could have your Happy Place.”
I just about burst into tears then. That was so sweet of Phillip, and I appreciated him more at that moment than I think I ever had. Blood is thicker than water, and perhaps learning that my little brother loved me was worth the pain I'd gone through that night. But I still didn't want dad to sell the cabin.
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