I recently suggested that, after investing so much focus and energy over the past year or so in getting my latest nonfiction published, once that project was finished, I would spend the winter with Alice trying to find my inner Emerson/ Thoreau and seek a better understanding of and appreciation for the beauty and wonder of the winter season.
As is routinely the case with my scattered brain, deciding to pursue such a project immediately got me busy thinking about all the possibilities, potential fun, and opportunities to explore the natural world up close and personal on an intimate basis. One thing led to another, and I eventually realized that since winter doesn’t officially begin for another five weeks, it might be fun to do a few “pre-entries” to prime the pump, so to speak.
Given the title of my website, my third book, and one of my Substack newsletters, y’all should be clear that I live a reclusive Hermit life, and I do so publicly and unapologetically. For the benefit of any who might come across my work and don’t know my backstory, consider a paragraph on how I got here before we proceed with the first of my two prewinter hermit entries.
I grew up in a city suburb, despite being raised by (and descended from generations of Appalachian country Folk) Rural Life was instilled in me, and from even my earliest beginnings I have always found my greatest joy whenever I am in the woods, the mountains, or anywhere very few people can be found. My work life forced me to be surrounded by humans, the last half of which put me in front of classrooms filled with students, and as my first marriage was beginning to fail, my separation landed me in a remote cabin on a pond with no running water and an outhouse. I felt like I had died and gone to heaven.
Despite that cabin (and the Glorious life I lived there) being the planned second of two entries, it planted a seed in my heart and soul which became the tender young roots of a way of life I intend to die living. But before we get to that, I want to tell the story about the second cabin – one I built with my own two hands and the help of my then-3-year-old granddaughter which eventually culminated in my becoming who I am today… And the eyes through which I see the world around me.
During my time in Texas, living out what would only be 10 years worth of a childhood dream, I bought a trailer house on one acre of land. I fenced in the entire property, sectioned most of it into several grazing areas, and built a chicken coop, a small Paddock, and a 100 ft by 50 ft riding ring with lights so we could ride and train in cooler, after-dark temperatures. I put every square inch of that acre to some functional use, including a 12 ft by 12 ft building that came to be lovingly known as “The Playhouse,” which was the same physical dimension (on purpose) as the aforementioned cabin on the pond.
The featured image of this entry, The Playhouse, is the finished product of roughly a year’s worth of tweaking, finessing, and nuance sing a building that was built using a hilarious range of materials gathered together through horse-trading, labor swapping, disassembly of other buildings from remote locations, and quite a few downed cedar and Mesquite trees (considered insidious and loathsome in Texas, yet highly sought out by those that don’t know any better and don’t have to contend with them).
The entire structure rests on very large stones harvested from local back roads. Each one is dug into place at varying depths so that the frame is level. The base frame consists of six 6×6 pressure-treated Timbers—termites hate those—and the floor joists (2×6, 16 on Center and nailed together by aluminum joist hangers) hold up the subfloor, which is made of 1 in pressure-treated plywood.
The walls are made of 2×6 Oak Timbers (from a demolition project), also 16 on Center, and the ceiling is framed with more of those Oak boards. The ridge Pole, from a separate demolition project, is made of Mesquite… At 14 ft, it was by far the heaviest piece of lumber we have ever encountered; a thousand years from now, that piece of Timber will be sitting at the top of the pile of crumbled remains, with not an ounce of Aging to its look.
The interior is insulated with sheets of insulated particle board, and the siding came from an old barn we tore down. The windows came from that same demo, and the roof – Texas being Texas – was made of tin. But with all the charm that mishmash of Castaway building materials might have had, it was the inside that made it a Playhouse.
The bar, a 4 ft wide, 8 ft long, 4-in thick slab of rough cut pine… I can’t say publicly how I came by it… Was the centerpiece of the whole layout. It sat on a frame of 2x4s above an antique ceramic double sink. Water came from a garden hose attached to the house, allowing the glasses to be washed and dipped in a clean rinse. The electric lines were run from a breaker box attached to a street light that we could turn on and off at the pole. The refrigerator, equipped with what I lovingly called a slot machine handle, had a small freezer at the top where ice cubes were made.
The skirt around the bar was made from the same material we used for the exterior siding, and necessary supplies—mixers, blenders, Martini shakers, and so forth—were on either side of the sink under the bar.
Spillover seating included a high-back antique chair, an incredibly uncomfortable futon, and a couple of extra bar stools to the right just as you walked in the door. Five steps outside, clothing optional, and an above-ground pool was available for anyone bold enough for a little drunken naked frivolity. There was literally no other house for miles in either direction except directly up the hill from the house, so we kept the nudity to a dull Roar until afterdark with the street light off.
It was our Oasis. There were public bars several miles away, and we had the occasional straggler show up after those bars closed (scrambling for bathing suits before they came into the yard), but it was primarily a private family Oasis where we could literally let our hair down (or drop the skirts and boxers) and drink cocktails on floaties while we looked up at the stars. Heaven and solitude really can be found if you look hard enough for it and can muster the ingenuity and materials necessary to embrace the hermit life.
