NOVEMBER 22, 2022 – My wife doesn’t know how lucky she is not to be at the Red Cabin with me—livin’ the life of Riley five days in a row. After just three days I was well into an eremitic routine. More than a week and I’d be a classic example of what happens to an old man living too long on his own in the woods . . .
What’s usually a sturdy, half-log dining table (with matching half-log benches), clear of all things except a shining coat of clear varnish and a centerpiece that’s “elegant-rustic” on a red mat is now Santa’s main workbench crowded with tools and materials and a partially constructed gnome home destined to bring Christmas joy and delight to our granddaughter (and thus to me). The surrounding floor is now covered with sawdust and wood-shavings. Anonymous elves have extended the project to the nearby kitchen island counter, also normally neat and clear, which is now eligible for federal disaster relief.
Then there’s “Santa’s” mufti—including a frayed, faded, paint-spotted sweatshirt designed for work, not show, that doubles as a giant rag when the need arises.
Worse is the food situation. Having brought only enough victuals for three days, I’m now down to emergency rations, not counting a box of Reggano “Buffalo Chicken Cheesy Skillet Dinner Kit” (without the chicken) with a “Best if Used by” date of September 19, 2019. The box is a bit of a mystery. It’s not something my wife would have bought. Perhaps visitors four or more years ago had left it behind. If my wife were here, she’d be checking out online order-and-pickup possibilities as far away as Duluth before she’d eat another bowl of ramen and granola bar chock full of nuts.
Another few days here and who knows—I’d find myself following the recommendation in our book, Cottage Water Systems, to-wit: “If it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down” (or simply pee in the woods if the ambient air temperature is above 10F when nature calls, so to speak). I’ve already pushed the limit on showering . . . or rather, not showering. My wife would definitely be drawing lines around all this and telling me that I’d crossed them. (If she’s reading this, not to worry: dental hygiene and regular, thorough hand-washing would be the last to go and not in less than a month.)
My wife would also tire of my rotating “sound system”: (a) total silence most of the day; (b) McCartney III CD 50,000 times in a row while I’m working on the gnome home; and (c) “loop” mode for the CD of Heifetz, Rubinstein and Piatigorsky playing Mendelssohn and Tchaikovsky trios—while I’m composing my daily blog post.
And she wouldn’t be happy with the late hours I keep, reading in bed with the bright lamp on well past midnight—and after I’ve fallen asleep.
I jest—in part. In the cool light of day, I can readily see how easily a recluse can wind up “on the spectrum.” Accordingly, it’s probably a good thing that I’d brought no more than five days’ worth of medications, thus forcing my return to civilization.
But I’ll soon be back to the Northwoods, where for another four or five days I can live the life of Riley.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
