Last night we settled into a lumpy bed in a little house called the Sugar Shack deep down in a Manitoban valley. Gully after gully after gully, we rounded the last corner and reached the familiar path in the old faithful Toyota. When the dark came, there was nothing around but us. Candles alight, wood stove cracking, crickets wailing.
We woke to hot light pouring in through glass and acorn percussion on the tin roof. Strong coffee black. I drank the rest of the wine by ten in the morning and banged off a couple of letters on the old Olympia while Craig roamed solo through the valley. Lunching in underwear and cowboy hats around a lazy fire.
Tonight the noises are different. Heat of day lingers upstairs. Trains wail instead of crickets. Humidity in place of fire. Funny how one can feel so at home in a home so far from home. I have always loved that little shack in the valley and am lucky to be able to visit it when the spirit leads.
Found and read this today, tucked away in yet another bedside book. Funny what travels with us through time and what doesn't make the cut.