OCTOBER 21, 2019 – This weekend we had Illiana, our just-turned-four granddaughter, stay with us at the Red Cabin. She’s a dynamo—moving, talking, doing non-stop.
During her visit, I wondered what details she’ll likely remember. Gathering “unicorn food” with her grandmother? Sniffing a wintergreen leaf that I folded in half and put to her little nose? Looking at stars twinkling above the lake after sunset? Hugging a special tree?
I like to think she’ll remember all of these things, but perhaps none will stick. Recently I read that we don’t remember much before we’re four.
In wondering what she might remember, I mused about my earliest memory of being “up at the cabin.”
To stretch a summer weekend, my dad had decided we’d leave before dawn on a Monday. Despite the hub-bub of our early departure, he wanted us to experience heavenly splendor outside. With my sisters in tow and our grandpa picking up the rear, Dad carried me down the narrow, dirt drive behind the cabin to a clearing in the woods, where we could obtain a sky view less obstructed than the view just outside the cabin, surrounded by trees.
I remember the wonder in Dad’s voice, as he directed our gaze skyward. I remember too, seeing at least a gazillion stars.
Minutes later—we were then in a hurry—my grandmother poured Kellogg’s Special K cereal into my bowl. This was in contrast to her usual breakfast fare—oatmeal, soft-boiled eggs and toast, cut in four strips that you could dip into the egg yolk; baked bacon, orange juice, and her fresh, made-from-scratch, cinnamon rolls; all served as she talked to us warmly, sweetly. Her Swedish accent carried a musical lilt that reinforced her special bond with my sisters and me. We were her and grandpa’s sole grandchildren.
She died when I was 11, but my memories of her are deep and vivid. I remember her elegant movements as she prepared full-scale meals at the cabin. I remember her memories of Sweden told as we built our own memories of her. The cabin surroundings reminded her of Sweden and prompted her reminiscences as she guided us along the path between the old cabin and the next cabin, primitive and rarely occupied, which the grownups called, “Gorud’s,” the owner’s name.
Inexplicably, I remember a detail of one such walk when I was Illiana’s age. When we reached “Gorud’s,” we sat in the glider swing out front. The swing brushed against the branches of a white pine no more than three feet high. I remember vividly how soft the needles appeared, moving in synch with our slow glide, as our grandmother filled our ears with her musical voice.
Decades later, my wife and I would acquire “Gorud’s” and build the “Red Cabin” there. That little pine of yore is now a stalwart, towering over the surrounding trees. It stands directly in front of our cabin. Yesterday, Illiana, my grandmother’s great-great-grandchild, gave that tree a great big hug—a memory I’ve captured for her.
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© 2019 Eric Nilsson
