The Cabin

Olivia Clarin

“C’mon, we better get going so we can beat traffic.”

My two sisters and I would then climb into the backseat. Immediately reaching for the DVD case, the cinematic world awaited us. So much to choose from, but we were always going to choose from the same few movies: “Aquamarine”, “Finding Nemo”, or “Barbie.”

A four-hour drive. I remember that used to feel impossibly long. An hour and a half in, we usually had finished one movie, ready to reenact it on the beach. That was our cue to play car games like “The Celebrity Name Game.” 

“Janis Joplin. That reverses back to Anna,” my mom would say.

“Julia Roberts,” Anna replied.

We’d play until we couldn’t think anymore or until the bright “Gordy’s High-Hats” sign came into view. A 1960s-era diner that was packed during the summertime. Our seventh-inning stretch. Mint ice cream and cheeseburgers.

Back in the car. A few more hours to go. Even now, the turn onto the cabin road fills me with the same swelling anticipation. The winding, forested roads open into a clearing. The smell of cedar. The lake breeze pushed my hair back. Lake Vermilion.

This place has known more versions of me than I’ve known of myself. 

I think of my great-grandparents, who I never had the chance to meet, carving this shoreline into something livable. Sacred. Shareable. They sold pieces of it to friends and family with the hope that it would be passed down through generations. 

My grandma built her cabin right next to theirs. It was always a place of community. My sisters and I would hop out of the car and immediately get to work lining up Beanie Babies along the screened in-porch, as if they were waiting for their summer debut. Later, I’d sit at the end of the dock with my dad, fishing. I never liked the crawfish I accidentally caught, so he’d take them off the hook for me.

My grandma would then start the wood-burning sauna. “SOW-NA” she taught us. “That’s how the Finns say it.” The adults took the top benches, brave enough for the harsh heat. The kids sat closer to the floor, tossing ladles of water onto the rocks until steam rose with a hiss. “Don’t throw too much,” my grandma warned, “You’ll put out the fire.” 

Then we’d run to the dock and plunge into the lake. Cold. Crisp. Shocking. My grandma would walk in from the shore. We’d swim like fish, our bodies learning the rhythm: sauna, lake, repeat.

And then, things changed.

My grandma gave the cabin to my uncle. For the first time in my life, we didn’t go back the following summer. Or the one after that. When we eventually did return, the cabin was almost unrecognizable. Renovated. Rearranged. The physical changes were one thing, but the atmosphere felt different. The openness my grandma had cultivated had dissipated. We walked on eggshells.

Family tension hung in the air. 

Over the past few years, my family has begun to go back. Slowly. Tentatively. Last weekend, I went up with my mom, and for the first time in a while, I felt at peace. I learned how to start the sauna and developed empathy for why my grandma was particular about it. 

I take mental pictures of my surroundings with every blink from the shape of the trees to the sunset glinting off the water, knowing any visit could be my last. I have dreams of owning the cabin with my sisters someday and restoring the warmth my grandparents gave us. I don’t know if it will happen, but I hope it does. 

This place holds memories that go back generations. This place makes me feel more at home than anywhere else.