I was seven years old when I spent
my first summer away from civilization. My family and I drove five hours north
of our hometown to stay in the family cabin, poetically and fittingly named Singing
Cedars by my great-uncle Joe. He built the log cabin in the early twentieth
century, and lived there with his family in Oscoda, Michigan, until his death.
The cabin was left to my grandfather, who encouraged my family to vacation there
during the summer months. My mother, an
elementary school art teacher, could stay with my brother and sister and I even
when my father had to work.
From
the moment we drove our explorer down the gravel driveway leading to Singing
Cedars, I began to understand its name. Though the cabin was miles from our
closest neighbor, and the sounds of traffic and city life would become foreign
throughout the next weeks, my ears perked to attention as we approached our new
summer home. Birds gossiped with one another from above, chirping back and
forth in cheerful chitchat. The sound of scampering squirrels could be heard as
they chased each other along branches. The cabin itself, made of Western Red
Cedar, called out to me as we climbed out of the car. Western Red Cedar fibers
contain oils that give off a distinct cedar aroma, pleasant to humans but repellent
to insects and moths.[1] As this
smell drifted into my nose, the cabin emanated a hospitable ambiance. I
immediately felt at home, and the cedars of the cabin and the trees surrounding
it really seemed to sing to me, welcoming me into the intimacy and loveliness
of a cabin in the woods. Singing Cedars.
The cabin and its surrounding area was unlike
any place I’d ever experienced before. With woods surrounding the cabin for
miles, and dirt trails leading to unknown destinations in the enchanted forest
and beyond, a child’s imagination could run wild. Deer were spotted daily,
grazing right outside the cabin, and dozens of critters and fish resided in the
pond in the back yard. A wooden bridge arched across the water, and my brother
and sister and I would lie on our bellies over the water. With nets dangling,
we watched the fish pass under us, waiting for the opportune moment to swoop in
for the big catch.
There
was no television, no VCR, and no computer at Singing Cedars. The only forms of
entertainment were an old radio and an upright piano. Yet as kids, my siblings
and I never seemed to be bored. Every week, my mom took us into town to the
township library, and we were permitted to check out as many books as we could
carry. That summer, I picked out stacks upon stacks of books, from the Boxcar
Children to the Great Illustrated Classics. I could barely walk with the weight
of my book stack, but I was determined to read as much as I could. The more I could
carry, the more I could read.
There
was something special about reading at Singing Cedars; it wasn’t the same as
reading a book in the car or at the library. Being close to nature, perhaps, in
the midst of trees and animals, put me in closer contact with the characters
and settings of the books I read. It was easier to imagine myself on adventures
with Tom Sawyer, when my own adventures were played out in the woods behind the
cabin. The mysteries of Nancy Drew became even more mysterious when the sun set
over Singing Cedars and the thought of bears in the darkness made me huddle up
next to my sister. Without the sound of cartoons or cars, without my brother’s
video games or my father’s football games, the people and
places in my books became far more
real.
I
sometimes read in the afternoon, spread out on a blanket in the grass. Sipping lemonade,
I donned Mickey Mouse sunglasses to protect my eyes as they absorbed page after
page of adventures and fairytales. I sometimes read in the evenings after
dinner, curled up in a ball on an ancient chaise lounge near the fire. The
chaise lounge was a faded pale green, with a chocolate stain on the left arm. I
imagined that it was once the color of grass, but had been reduced to mint-chocolate
chip ice cream from generations of readers like myself, curled up with a good book
after a warm bath. I liked that the chair was old, and I liked that the color
was faded. It was so worn in that I practically sank into it, and I felt myself
melting into my reading chair, melting into the room, and melting into the
warmth and comfort of the fire. I sometimes read well past “lights out” up in
the loft where my bed was, clandestinely disappearing under my blanket with my
book. After a few minutes of pitch black, I’d reach under my bed and quietly
pull out my secret weapon: the Itty Bitty Book Lite. Not only did I read all of
the books that I had chosen at the library, but I finished off my brother and
sister's books, as well. In the middle of the woods in an old log cabin in
northern Michigan, I discovered the pleasure of reading.
The
other main attraction to me at Singing Cedars was an ancient upright piano. Far from a Steinway, it had chips on the middle C and the D and E that
followed it. The bottom note only
sometimes sounded, and the top note of the instrument simply clunked, not even attempting
a pitch. Many of the notes were out of tune, and the M in “Yamaha” had
completely worn off. Generations of pianists in my family played on that piano,
from my mother to my grandfather to my great-grandmother. I can only imagine the number of
stories that lie beneath every tattered
key.
What
really got me hooked, though, was the way I could fill the cabin up to the rafters
with my music. That summer, my mom expanded my musical knowledge far beyond
what I had learned from my piano teacher down the street back home. My mom showed
me dozens of old music books in the piano bench, books that her father had used
to teach her piano when she was younger. In fact, my mom told me, my
grandfather had given her lessons on that very piano, on that very bench. Sitting
on that piano bench, I felt like I was sitting with a small piece of history. I
wanted desperately to be a part of it somehow, and I knew that by creating
music I would continue the family tradition and maybe even create a bit of history
myself.
I
already knew how to read music, and though my fingers were tiny, I could
already play a few scales. I took piano lessons for fun, mostly, and because my
mother insisted that each of her children continue the musical family tradition.
But that summer at Singing Cedars, my passion for music really took off in
flight. My wings were genetic, and I inherited a special pair from my great-aunt
Gladys, who had toured the country as a professional pianist. My mother’s
confidence in me insisted that I not be afraid of heights, and I wasn’t. She guided
my take-off, briskly walking me through the circle of fifths and a few dynamics,
but after that she watched me take off by myself, spreading my wings and
disappearing into my own little world. I soared into music, teaching myself to
play Beethoven’s Fur Elise. After
that, I knew that I had fallen in love with music. I flew through dozens of pieces,
amazed and excited with my newly discovered talent. After the first few weeks
at Singing Cedars, my mornings were spent tinkling away on the old upright,
instead of exploring in the woods with my
siblings.
That summer at Singing Cedars was a turning
point in my life; at age seven, I
realized my love for music and
literature in a few magical months. It was shortly thereafter that I began
writing poetry, and I soon discovered my love for writing. Writing and music
have become my two outlets for expression. I can release any emotion—from exhilaration
to devastation to frustration—with simple motions in my fingers through the
piano or a pen. Today, music is still my greatest passion. Writing has also
become an aspiration of mine, and I continue to write poetry and prose. My
Writing Folder is one of my most prized possessions, and my Steinway piano is the
thing I treasure most in the world. That
first summer at our cabin, amid grazing deer and beautiful sunsets, my heart
sang for the first time. It sang of music and reading, of family and appreciation.
And though our cabin was sold years ago, always I’ll know that I found my voice
at Singing Cedars.
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