Apparently, I Work Here Now

I went to my cabin for the summer to relax.

This was my first mistake.

Although, if I'm being honest, I knew better.

I've owned my little cabin for more than ten years.

And when I bought it, I knew exactly what I was getting myself into.

A money pit.

A beautiful, sentimental, slightly crooked money pit.

I didn't buy it because it was perfect.

I bought it because my family has been going to this little hole in Arkansas for generations.

I grew up across the street from these cabins.

My childhood memories aren't exactly the kind you find in a vacation brochure.

I remember installing laminate flooring with my grandpa.

Replacing broken pipes and water lines with my dad.

Unintentionally trying to blow up a cabin with fireworks.

Recovering chairs with Grandma.

Playing board and card games with my mom.

Taking down trees that we probably had absolutely no business taking down ourselves.

Did that stop us?

No.

Of course not.

We had a chainsaw and confidence.

What could possibly go wrong?

My coworkers used to hear me talk about going to the lake for the summer and say:

"That's not a vacation. That sounds like a working vacation."

Maybe it is.

But I was always okay with that.

Because for me, this is part of the vacation.

Fixing something with my family.

Working on the cabin.

Making something better.

Sitting on the deck afterward with a cup of coffee.

Looking across the street at the properties that used to belong to my grandparents.

That's vacation to me.

That's home.

That's why I bought the cabin years ago.

I knew she was a money pit.

I just didn't realize I would eventually become the cabins-in-the-hole's full-time maintenance department.

And this summer...

I think I finally got tired.

Not of the cabin.

Not of the work.

Not even really of fixing things.

I think I'm just getting old.

And apparently, with age comes a reduced tolerance for bullshit.

Which brings us to the cabin itself.

She has the audacity to break.

Constantly.

The foundation is shifting.

The cabin is slowly trying to move into the addition.

So I used foam insulation to fill the gaps and basically glued the two structures back together so it wouldn't be drafty in the winter.

Is that how a structural engineer would recommend handling it?

H. E. double hockey sticks, no.

Did it make me feel better?

Absolutely.

The floor has developed a slope that I can only describe as walking downhill when you enter the cabin.

You don't walk into the cabin.

You descend into it.

Gravity gets involved.

The bathroom floor has swollen so much that the door wouldn't open.

So I cut about half an inch off the bottom of the door.

Because apparently that's what we're doing now.

Some people renovate their vacation homes.

I negotiate with physics.

And then there were the stairs.

Oh, the stairs.

My husband was coming to the lake and admitted he was a little anxious about the trip.

Not because of the drive.

Not because of the kids.

He was wondering what was going to need to be fixed this time.

Which was actually a very reasonable question.

Because the cabin has a history.

And apparently the cabin heard him.

Because the stairs broke that day.

Of course they did.

I like to imagine the cabin sitting there quietly thinking:

"Oh, he's wondering what needs to be fixed?"

"I will show you, sir."

So there I was, rebuilding the patio stairs.

At this point, I am convinced the cabin is sentient.

And petty.

The plumbing breaks.

The foundation shifts.

The floor slopes.

The bathroom floor swells.

The addition tries to merge with the cabin.

The stairs wait until my husband mentions being worried something will break.

Then they break.

Honestly?

I respect the commitment to the bit.

And yet...

I absolutely love that place.

Would I describe it as five-star hotel quality?

Absolutely not.

Would I trade it for a five-star hotel?

Not a chance.

Because when I'm there, my favorite thing in the world is sitting on the deck with my coffee, looking across the street, and listening to the kids play with my cousins' kids.

Those properties used to belong to my grandparents.

They were passed down when they died.

So when I sit there, I'm not just looking at another piece of lake property.

I'm looking at family history.

I'm looking at the places where I spent my childhood.

I'm remembering 1940s swing music playing in Grandpa's garage.

Grandma putting laundry out on the line.

Working beside my dad and siblings.

Learning how to fix things.

Learning that if something is broken, you don't necessarily throw it away.

Sometimes you figure out how to fix it.

And if you can't fix it?

Try harder!

Haha.

Those lessons stayed with me.

Probably more than I realized.

Because somewhere along the way, I became the person who figures things out.

And apparently, my family noticed.

Because this summer, while I was living at the lake full-time, I somehow became the unofficial property manager for everyone.

My dad owns the boats.

My dad owns the jet ski.

My dad owns another cabin.

My brothers own cabins.

My uncle owns another.

I own mine.

But I was the one there.

So when something broke...

I knew about it.

When something needed someone to physically be there...

I was there.

And that's how it starts.

The boat broke.

I hired boat mechanics.

Because I am perfectly comfortable admitting when something is outside my skill set.

The jet ski broke.

That one I YouTubed.

I talked to a mechanic I know in town.

I figured out what I could.

The rest I left to professionals.

The rock wall at my cabin needed repairs because my family apparently believes the corner of my property is a suggested route rather than a boundary.

I hired a tree guy because trees on government property were looming over my cabin.

And then I had to deal with government lawyers who apparently believed one of those trees had been there before the cabin was built.

The cabin was built in the 1940s.

I'm not a tree expert, but I'm fairly certain that tree wasn't sitting there with a tiny hard hat waiting for the construction crew.

But sure.

We'll go with that.

I handled it.

Because that's what I do.

I figure things out.

I hire the professional when I need a professional.

I make the phone call.

I find the person.

I coordinate the repair.

I move on.

And honestly?

I didn't mind.

I wanted the boats to work.

I wanted the jet ski to work.

I wanted everyone to have a good vacation.

I wanted the cabins taken care of.

I wanted my family to enjoy the lake.

I wanted everyone to leave with good memories.

That's not really new for me.

I've spent my whole life doing this.

The difference this year is that I finally started noticing how tired I was.

And maybe that's because I'm getting older.

Or maybe I've just reached the point where when I call my dad and ask for help, I don't want to hear:

"Just call a repairman."

Dad.

Buddy.

Sir.

You raised a strong, independent woman.

Let's keep that going, shall we?

😂

I don't necessarily want you to fix it for me.

I want you to help me figure it out.

I want to hear:

"Okay. What's going on?"

"Let's look at it."

"What do you think we should do?"

Because you taught me how to do that.

You taught me how to look at something broken and not immediately assume it was beyond saving.

You taught me to work.

You taught me to figure things out.

You taught me to be capable.

So occasionally, I would like to bring that capability back to the person who helped create it.

That's all I'm asking.

And then there were the boats.

Because apparently one summer of boat drama wasn't enough.

The new boat needed bunks.

Thank God I had made friends and connections while we lived at the lake last year.

One of those friends could build the bunks for about 25% of what it would have cost otherwise.

Twenty-five percent.

At this point, my Arkansas contact list had become more valuable than my retirement account.

Then the new boat needed a crane and a trailer.

Again, I knew a business that could help.

So I made the calls.

Coordinated everything.

The new boat was delivered.

The bunks were done.

People are paying me back.

Success.

Victory.

Cue the inspirational music.

Except...

The old boat is still being repaired.

And once it is fixed, it still has to be sold.

So the boat saga is not over.

It has simply been renewed for another season.

Apparently, I have been picked up for Season Two without being consulted.

And while all of this was happening...

My garden was left alone without me.

My precious dahlias.

The flowers I had fussed over.

The plants I had babied.

The garden I had spent so much time building.

I left.

The garden was just one more thing on the list that couldn't follow me everywhere.

So I worried.

Of course I did.

I imagined coming back to all dead plants.

Sad little stems.

A graveyard of dahlias.

My cottage garden reduced to a botanical crime scene.

And then I saw the latest photo from my parents.

And you know what?

It was still there.

Still growing.

Still blooming.

Still putting on a show.

After everything.

After being neglected.

After being left without the person who normally fusses over every leaf.

It was still standing.

Still stubborn.

Still determined.

And honestly?

I understood it.

Because apparently my garden and I have more in common than I thought.

We both survive on questionable amounts of water.

We both have things trying to destroy us.

We both occasionally require support.

And neither of us seems particularly interested in admitting defeat.

Maybe that's what I needed to see.

Not perfection.

Not everything thriving exactly the way I planned.

Just resilience.

Because that little cabin has taught me something too.

Things don't have to be perfect to be precious.

The cabin isn't level.

The floor slopes.

The foundation is shifting.

The bathroom door has been shortened.

The patio stairs have been rebuilt.

The addition is held together with foam and optimism.

The family member in the kitchen can talk to the person in the bathroom through the seam in the wall.

The rock wall occasionally gets assaulted by my relatives.

And I love every crooked, stubborn inch of it.

Because it has history.

Because when I sit on that deck with my coffee, I can look across the street at the properties that once belonged to my grandparents and feel connected to something bigger than myself.

That's worth more to me than five stars ever could be.

Maybe that's why I keep fixing it.

Not because I think everything has to be perfect.

But because some things are worth preserving.

Even when they're crooked.

Even when they're difficult.

Even when they're held together by foam, duct tape, and sheer stubbornness.

And maybe that is what my garden was trying to tell me.

It didn't need me to hover over it every second.

It didn't need perfection.

It just needed a chance.

And somehow, despite everything...

it kept blooming.

Maybe I can learn to do the same.

Maybe getting older doesn't mean I have to stop being capable.

Maybe it just means I don't have to prove how capable I am every single minute.

Maybe I can still fix the stairs.

Still rebuild the rock wall.

Still figure out the boat.

Still be the strong, independent woman my dad raised.

But maybe I can also admit:

I'm tired.

And maybe I can ask for help without giving up the part of me that knows how to fix things.

The cabin can keep leaning.

The old boat can keep getting fixed at the mechanic's.

My family can keep cutting the corner.

And I can still sit on my deck with my coffee.

Because sometimes the goal isn't to have everything perfectly together.

Sometimes the goal is simply to protect what matters, fix what you can, laugh at what you can't, and keep blooming anyway.

Preferably with a cup of coffee in your hand.

And preferably somewhere nobody can find you.

Because apparently, I may be getting older.

But I'm not done fixing things yet.

I just might need to sit down between repairs.