Every autumn, we sit and watch the news wondering if the following weekend we’ll be sifting though the ashes of our cabin in the woods. Our cabin, which holds our family’s memories, is the constant in our lives. Because we moved from city to city growing up, the cabin became our real home. In 2003, when Pat wrote the following college essay, the mountains were engulfed in flames with no news regarding the fate of our cabin. Three years later, in 2006, the fires came within a half mile of our cabin – only the ridge between our cabin and the golf course diverted the inferno. We sat hopelessly as announcers proclaimed Lake Arrowhead in flames. Perhaps it took the fires to remind us about how important family and home really are.

Pat’s Essay
I remember that my sisters and I were horrified when my parents decided to buy this particular cabin. The first time I saw it, it was creepy. It was yellow with a painted blue roof. The windows were boarded up and the smell of neglect permeated the air. A brick fireplace hunched at one end of the pine paneled living room and a narrow staircase took us up to the dorm. The dorm. At the time, my sisters were sure that a bedroom with five beds was unacceptably communal. There was another small bedroom upstairs divided from the dorm by a partial wall, which would later be claimed by my older sister, Jessica. Under the house was the basement full of the former owners’ stuff, including a tractor. I pointed out that the tractor was cool but my sisters shushed me. Initially, the siblings took a stand but the parents prevailed. We bought the cabin because, as my mother pointed out, it was on the lake – even if the windows were boarded up so you couldn’t see the lake.

My mother worked some magic and the next time I saw the cabin it was still yellow with a blue roof but the windows sparkled with the reflected azure of the lake and a boat waited for us in its dock. Even the wallpaper proclaiming – “A day of joy; a lifetime of love,” – hokey in any other world, seemed appropriate here.
Our days fell into a flexible routine. Mom and Dad would write in the morning (my mother wrote her dissertation at the kitchen table) while we slept. We would awaken to the smell of pancakes and coffee, throw back the covers to the small beds in the dorm, and wander down the narrow staircase to the old kitchen with the funny brown stove by the door. One entire wall of the kitchen was windows and the lake, glinting in the California sun, would beckon us saying, “I’m here – come swim, sail, water ski, whatever.”

Ah the lake. My mom was right. It didn’t matter how old the cabin might be, its location was perfect. There was the beach to the right and our dock to the left. We looked out across the lake at the monstrous “cabins” of the rich and famous. The water was always blue but sometimes cold. My sisters, my best friend Blake, and I would carry the water skiing equipment and the cooler full of drinks to the waters edge. The walk took us through an old growth cedar forest - ours was the only part of the woods that had not been logged one-hundred years ago. The trees soared miles high and were 10 feet around. No matter how hot the day was, the woods were cool and mysterious. The smell of pine infused our days. Our dogs raced before us and plunged off the dock. The day began.

My father’s entertainment was introducing novice skiers to the joy of water skiing. Arms straight. Knees bent. His most challenging pupil was Coraline, a foreign exchange student from France. “Coraline, keep your arms straight” my father begged.
“What?” asked Coraline.
“Arms straight; Knees bent”
“I do not understand!” she yelled in her strong French accent.
“She doesn’t understand your commands!” Jessie announced with a hint of despair.
My dad faced certain failure. The language barrier was too great. But just when it seemed that all hope was lost, a translating hero stepped in to save the day. Jessie’s boyfriend at the moment grew up speaking French.
“Coraline, Tondue! Plie!” he yelled over the roar of the engine.
My dad took up the call, “Tondue! Plie!”
Fortunately, Coraline was a dancer and immediately her arms straightened, her knees bent, and she was up on both water skis skipping over the water. That was of course, until she lost her balance and plunged awkwardly, with a splash, into the water. Fortunately, she emerged waving and excited. The international ski boat driver was successful, his reputation untarnished. There was another notch on the throttle of the boat.

Blake and my friends were natural athletes. Blake mastered the wake board with spectacular wipeouts and Will did his best to emulate him. However, my sister Keri was the master at water skiing and at crashing. She once encircled the entire lake on one ski not stopping until the boat had to stop for gas. She could take one foot out of her ski, hold the tow rope with her toe, and wave with both hands at the tourists in the great white riverboat – The Arrowhead Queen - that cruised the lake on the hour. The stunt was called “The Jessie” after the sister who thought it up, mastered it, and then grew too tall to keep her balance. The same thing happened in turn to Keri and then to me. I think I was 10 years old the last time I was able to do “The Jessie.”

At night, after dinner and doing the dishes (no dishwasher; the cabin didn’t have phone or cable when we bought it – and we never watched television; cabin rules), when the stars were out, we would cruise silently on the lake with our running lights sparkling on the water and we would tell stories, including our family ghost story. This story was told to my mother by her grandmother (my great grandmother) about her mother when she was a little girl – so the story is about my great great grandmother, Ottili, or Tilly as her mother called her.

The Fires
So how does this cabin tale end? We see a solitary but resolute fire fighter at the beginning of a cul-de-sac. The road is one car wide and defined by stocky granite stone walls. Not one cabin on the street belongs to anybody famous but the great trees beckon to him. He turns his hose on the roofs of these old cabins – cabins that are older than the lake - and on the trees, which are older still, -- and he saves them all – the whole street, including our little cabin that has stood there for over 75 years. It has survived earthquakes, drought, and recessions. And it survived the worst wildfires Southern California has experienced in its history. We thank all the firefighters and dedicate this cabin tale to them.