My wife’s brother and sister-in-law have a huge and gorgeous cabin in Hancock, Massachusetts. Jiminy Peak Resort is less than a mile away, and in winter, it’s one of the best ski resorts in New England. Summertime is a stunning time to visit, too. While I was here, the Weather Channel issued a frost advisory, which was nice for a guy from Alabama to experience in May.
Problem was, I didn’t quite remember which house was which. It was dark. My intestines were doing their own special hula dance. After bouncing the Brougham up two or three wrong dirt driveways, I called for directions (for men, calling for directions is far less upsetting than stopping for directions).
At last, I found the house. It was all I could do not to take the driveway at 50 mph and slide the old Cadillac into “home base” like a Derek Jeter at the bottom of the 9th. I dashed inside with a flashlight to guide me. Whew. Made it.
Then I realized that I was in a totally dark and unfamiliar house in the middle of the Berkshires. And everywhere I shined my flashlight, I spotted things that during the day, would be perfectly beautiful and appropriate for a cabin that looks like it’s straight from the pages of an L.L. Bean catalogue. At night, under the dim light of a flashlight, I kept seeing witches, wolves, and critters.
Don’t be such a baby, I thought. I resisted thinking about the graveyards I’d visited earlier in New Hampshire. Sheesh, I thought, I’m getting myself worked up like a junior-high kid telling ghost stories at Boy Scout camp. There was nobody around. No yelling couples, no bouncing toddlers, no noise of any kind. So this was the perfect spot to catch up on some sleep. A little Indian mojo would be good luck, anyway. I needed to be more “Dances with Wolves” and less “Hides under Blankie.”
At last, I drifted off into a deep slumber.
At 3:38 a.m., I was awakened by a loud pounding. What the devil? I thought. It took me a second to get my surroundings. Was I in Boston? New York? Maine? Oh, wait–I am by myself in a huge cabin in the woods. POUND, POUND, POUND!
What time is it?
POUND, POUND, POUND!
Is that someone at the front door?
POUND, POUND, POUND!
Or is that the house settling? I know old houses. I live in one. But this was a sharp rap, not an old creak. It’s either the police, wondering why there’s a 1958 Cadillac parked outside OR the cast of Deliverance, coming to disembowel the guy who is staying by himself.
I dashed to the hearth and grabbed my brother-in-law’s massive fireplace iron. Then I waited. Had anyone come through the door, I was ready: I’d poke the bejeasus out of them. Then I’d sweep up what was left with the other fireplace tools.
Hours later, the sun rose and lit up what was surely a hilarious sight: me, holding a fire iron, using a log as a pillow. And as the house heated up, sure enough, the loud pounds started again from the main log running across the expanse of the cabin. It was just the house settling all along. Whew. I felt silly.
The day was as lovely and crisp as one could wish. I washed clothes, relaxed, at a huge meal at Bob’s Country Kitchen, and watched a Memorial Day parade in true small-town fashion. The cabin proved to be the perfect escape for a couple of days.
(Still, the next evening, I vowed to have a little “nerve pill,” as my grandmother called her bourbons, before retiring for the night.)