It still stands fairly straight.
Weather beaten. Tired. Dry. Chinked with a concrete mix overlain with split shingles.
A scant 15’ by 15’. The corners are blunt ends, not dove tailed or joined in any way.
A door. Two windows. A stovepipe.
Floorboards have disappeared.
With a bit of work, she’d be livable again. No plumbing. No insulation. Just one tiny open concept cabin. But the bad news? This is not the Lord’s cabin according to locals. Whose then? I’m not sure. I have the feeling it is “newer” with that chinking. I’d like to know…
It is a remnant of dreams, of stories untold. Whispers of desires met, of love lost, of sadness, swirl through the surrounding grass, joining in the music and flow of the creek. While it may slip into history unknown, there is a strength in its logs. These people were tough, hardworking, souls, willing to put out big effort in search of a better life. Expecting little, having little, they tried. So many of these places dot the landscape of the west. So many stories lost to the wind.
