Spinster

My family has a cabin in the mountains of northeast Georgia, right at the base of the Appalachian mountains. It’s our vacation home, and my family built it. The cabin sits on three acres of land, surrounded by woods, on a mountain. My grandfather, uncle, and parents built the cabin, starting when I was about 3 or so, and ending in… oh wait, that’s right, it’s an ongoing project and my dad is constantly working on it. I mean, it’s entirely livable and all that, and has been for years, it’s just that there’s always something to do–put in a deck, put in a porch, convert the basement to an apartment (which will be stupid adorable when it’s done)…

I have such a love-hate relationship with that place. The house itself, for sure, but also the surrounding area and just the whole experience of being there. When I was little, like really little, it was so much fun to go up there, even though it required a 14-hour drive(now whittled down to 12, thanks to an increase in the turnpike speed limit and some rather careless driving on my brother’s and my parts), in a Toyota Corolla wagon with two kids and an Old English sheepdog whose slobber would eventually cover the vinyl seats, to which our sweaty skin was already sticking.

But once we got there, it was like summer camp every single day–it really is a gorgeous part of the country, and if you even slightly like the outdoors, there’s an unlimited number of things to do, and we would do them all. We spent hours at the beach on Lake Rabun; went out in a rowboat or, if I could convince my dad, a powerboat, on Lake Burton; went white-water rafting and canoeing; rode horses; “mined” for gems; and went on numerous hikes. My brother learned to kayak; I took horseback riding lessons. We learned to ski in the winter. We played Pooh sticks in the creek on “our” mountain and discovered the waterfalls, hidden behind the rhododendrons that line the road leading to the rifle range.

Once I got older and entered my teenage years, also known to my family as “What the hell happened to my sweet and agreeable daughter?”, going to the cabin became a chore of epic proportions. Why would I want to spend two weeks or a month in the middle of nowhere with my family when I could be hanging out with my friends in Miami? To give me some credit, it really is the middle of nowhere. The closest town is Clayton, Georgia, and I’m sorry to say that I’ve not discovered much redeeming about it in the twenty years that I’ve been going there. It’s not its fault, of course–it’s in a poor part of the country (Appalachia, while wild and unquestionably beautiful, is not known for its wealth, after all), and I can’t expect it to have quaint boutiques and art galleries when what it needs are hardware stores and discount clothing stores: and what it needs is what it has.

For a kid raised in a city, it’s hard to understand the country. Once you’ve exhausted its store of easily-enjoyed activities –the rafting, the horseback riding– you’re left with the bare bones of the place itself which, when you are a teenager, consist mainly of small annoyances. You’re left with the shitty television reception and, since you don’t live there, your parents aren’t going to pay for cable two weeks a year. You’re left with no friends, cause you don’t live there, but the older you get the more you wonder, could you really be friends with people who live in an area where the confederate flag still flies proud? Your parents, not being city folk at heart, don’t offer to take you to Atlanta where you and your brother could maybe burn off some steam. You’re left with the bugs and the chiggers in the summer, and the cold in the winter. You’re left with the sneaking suspicion that while you’re trapped in a stupid cabin with your parents and your little brother, your friends are living it up at home.

Then, in adulthood, you come back around to it. Since I graduated from high school, went to college, and gained some freedom, I haven’t been back many times. The times that I have been there, though, have been pleasant. In the summer, when Atlanta and the other southern cities are simmering in sticky heat, the mountains are warm during the day and cool at night, and the water in the lakes, rivers, and creeks is chill and refreshing. The sun usually shines behind a clear blue sky –unlike the overcast and perpetually-stormy Miami summers– and the afternoon thunderstorms are fierce and brief. My parents, caught up in their projects, alternate between work and play–one day, they will work and I will stay home and read or knit, and the next day, we will go hiking or canoeing. We still have no television reception, so we rent movies and that’s the only time we turn on the tv. There’s no computer. There is a phone but I’m past that stage and anyway, I have nothing to talk about.

I will be spending part of the winter break there, only one week (I wanted to have time to enjoy Toronto minus school and work). It’s been a long time since I have been there in the winter, and I’m not sure what to expect. This is what I remember:

Me: Dad, can we please turn on the heat? [My dad put in central heating a few years ago after using only the wood-burning stove for over a decade. My parents figured if they ever wanted to rent out the place, central air and heating would have to be installed.]

Dad: What, it’s not warm enough in here for you?

Me: Dad, it must be, like, 40 degrees [To non-Americans, that would be about 5] in here and I’m freezing.

Dad: Move closer to the stove. And put on more clothes!

Me: I’m wearing two sweaters, fleece pants, and I have a blanket and the cat on my lap. I’m sitting right next to the goddamn stove.

Dad: [Moving the thermostat dial the tiiiiiniest little bit over to the right.] Fine, I’ll turn on the heat.

[Note: This means that by the time I'm ready for bed, the icicles in my room will have started to melt. Started. And they won't have gotten very far.]

(It’s funny how, when I have no other option, being cold is approximately my worst nightmare, but the rest of the time, I’m overheating. )

Anyway, I will be spending part of my Christmas vacation in the land of Confederate flags and peaches, Deliverance and the Tallulah Gorge, depressing small towns and the Chattooga River.