I grew up going to my grandparents' cabin in the canyon. We had the blue one halfway up the road, the one with the monkey bridge over the creek, the rope swings, the hammock, the tree house, the profusion of geraniums, the loft with nine beds, the woodcarved phrase over the mantle Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott (A Mighty Fortress is our God). My grandpa knew how to create a magical spot, that's for sure. In the summer all the cousins (and many second cousins in nearby cabins) would gather and play endless games of War and Kick the Can and go barefoot and tube in the creek and do what kids do when they have time and wide open space.
Every once in a while I indulge in dreams of establishing our own family getaway, somewhere where our kids can bring their kids and the magic can continue for a few more generations. I admit I teeter on the line between wishing and...oh, coveting. Envying.
For a couple of years I've been watching a farmhouse for sale in a favorite corner of Vermont. It's not a cabin but it's got space and poTENtial, my friends! Yes, there is the reality about probably not being able to afford a whole other mortgage. Pshaw. Details. And the fact that it's in pretty bad shape and would need tons of work. Perfect, I say!
views of the Green Mountains
and a barn (the better to hold parties with, my dear)
My heart sank today when I did my weekly check of the property and saw someone has made a deposit. Shoot. I hate it when my imaginary future is taken away from me. Keep your fingers crossed for somebody's cold feet...