Longreads: The Cabin
Lavinia Spalding
The old rancher stood on the porch of my log cabin, shuffling his boots. Then he lowered the rim of his cowboy hat, squinted, and delivered the news I’d been dreading — the news that had probably been inevitable from the start.
Though I say the cabin was mine, I should confess it was really his. The rancher’s. Still, I felt possessive. I’d lived there only months, but I loved the wide covered porch where I’d hung my rope hammock, bought for 20 bucks in Mexico. I loved the woodstove and my nascent ability to make a half-decent fire on a chilly night. I loved the view from my picture window, past bright green fields and golden sandstone mesas, all the way to a distant blue triangle of mountain. A herd of deer grazed insouciantly in my yard each evening, a chorus of coyotes sang late at night. I loved everything about my cabin — especially what it represented: something that had eluded me my entire adult life.
Get Beyond the Beads: The 101 on Mardi Gras Throws
The Art of Eating Crawfish in New Orleans
Find New Orleans’s Soul at These 6 Mini-Museums
Politics is on the Menu at Hell’s Backbone Grill
New Orleans for the Celebratory
To the one who was supposed to get away
