Ancestors on the Castor

June 3, 2004

Dear Patty,

Leafing through the journal visitors to the cabin on the Castor River write in, DC found the day her paternal grandfather had a heart attack. The attack occurred while he was running around the cabin closing windows against a coming storm. His wife was there with him. DC's maternal grandparents had just started back to St. Louis but saw the storm cloud coming and fortunately drove back to the cabin.

Complications from his heart condition took his life a year later in 1964.

The history of DC's family is written in that journal and etched in that stone cabin. When the cabin is cleaned and straightened up at the end of each stay, one of the two swings on the front porch is lifted off its chains and placed inside the house proper. That's because DC's other grandfather made the swing in 1931.

Memories of my own grandmothers are just as dear. One refused to believe the characters in the TV show "Gunsmoke" weren't real but did believe in gravy and biscuits. My other grandmother put two $1 bills in every grandchild's and great-grandchild's birthday card no matter how old they got to be.

Everyone in the family has contributed something to the cabin, including sweat. In the past decade, a new roof has been added and new screens have been put on the front porch. DC's brother, Paul, is always fixing a door or weather-proofing something.

Not long after DC and I married, I found a long, narrow bench painted with pictures of fishing lures. It suited the bathroom. I brought it out, not yet understanding that the cabin is also a house of memories.

The bench replaced a small white table that had stood in the bathroom for many years. Last weekend, DC's father mentioned that the bench seems to fit right in. It took 10 years to get used to the change.

DC's father is preoccupied with fishing while at the cabin. He has a pond and a river to choose from and usually visits both every day. By the time DC and I arrived for Memorial Day weekend, he already had caught three catfish, including an 8-pounder. He also landed a large turtle DC successfully prevailed on him to spare in honor of its advanced age.

Last Labor Day, everyone helped build a stage near the cabin. During our stay last weekend, DC and I added to the stone steps and a trellis that leads to the stage. Paul already had built a railing so no performers overwhelmed by applause will plunge off the back of the stage in the dark.

Tornado warnings were posted much of the day and night before Memorial Day. A soft tension followed everyone around. We didn't know what might be coming over the hill behind the cabin. For once, DC's father stayed close to the house.

When the power went out, we dined on steak and potatoes by candlelight. Once the storm passed, we drove the mile to our friend Bonnie's house to share the strawberry ice cream DC made. DC insisted on bringing the dogs to Bonnie's house because the sky was a peculiar yellow. If a storm was going to come after us, she wanted us together.

Bonnie's beloved husband, Otto, died last year. The room was filled with our missing him.

In the field across the road from Bonnie's house, fireflies danced in the unelectrified falling night. They pulsed with the heatless fire underlying all Creation.

Year after year we return to the cabin knowing that though the firefly's light may disappear, the firefly is not gone.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.