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Once the trucks are clean, we trade our uniforms for jeans and polo shirts and gather around the table to enjoy a family meal of chili and cornbread before we head back to bed for what we hope will be an uneventful night.
Maxi
Iwake up early and make my way into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. It’s my day off, and I plan to spend the afternoon out at the old fishing shack. It’s time I roll up my sleeves and see what part, if any, of the place is salvageable.
I pour myself a large mug and wander out to the swing on the front porch. The air is cool, and the morning fog is still thick on the horizon. Since I moved to Tennessee, morning has been my favorite time of day. I used to be a night owl, but I love the quiet of dawn in the mountains. Everything seems fresh as the sun tiptoes its way over the peaks and settles its warm light over the trees.
A small bluebird lands in the azalea that’s nestled against the porch. A male indigo bunting joins me every day to enjoy a breakfast from the feeder I have hanging above the bush. He pays me for the seed with a sweet song as he rests.
My mother was a lover of birds. She had books upon books to identify them. I would sit on her lap in the backyard as she pointed out feathered friends and then flip through the pages until we found them. I used to envy them and pray that I could grow wings and fly away anytime I was spooked. Nothing to hold me trapped. Nothing to keep me from freedom. I think that was why Momma admired them too.
I sigh. It’s just another activity I’ll never get to appreciate with her again.
When the bunting finishes his song and flies away, I take my cup inside to the sink and get dressed.
I park my beat-up Chevy truck on the dirt path that leads from the paved road to the fishing shack. If I didn’t have the address and my phone’s GPS guiding me, I’d never be able to locate the remote spot.
I exit the vehicle and take in the sight of the old, dilapidated structure.
The shack is tucked by the river’s edge on approximately two point one acres of land. The building itself might need some TLC, but the property features open pastures and gorgeous mountainside views. The river frontage is perfect for boats, fishing, swimming, and kayaking. Everything might be overgrown, but I can see why my mother thought this place was paradise.
The fishing shack is sixteen feet by twenty-four feet. The exterior is a faded gray cedar shake siding with a dark asphalt shingled roof. The roof is covered with moss and mildew. There is a single window on the left side that is so caked with dust that you can’t see inside. A peeling white door is covered by a small arbor, and a weathered pier leads from the wraparound deck out into the river. An old green fishing net hangs from the arbor. A wooden ladder, life saver, and a collection of colorful, rotting buoys are attached to the side of the building by rusty hooks. Two kayaks in fair condition sit on the ground, just outside the front door.
I climb the three steps from the dirt to the deck and take hold of the doorknob. I wasn’t given a key, so I turn the knob, hoping it will open. It creaks ominously, and a dank aroma envelops me as I walk inside. My eyes adjust to the sparse light provided by the dingy window. I feel around for a light switch but can’t find one, so I grab my phone from my back pocket and click on the flashlight option.
The interior reminds me of an ancient RV we lived in for a year when I was around ten years old. There’s a countertop with cabinets against the back wall. A two-person fold-down tabletop is attached below the window, and it has a built-in bench with ripped ’70s print upholstery. An old terracotta pot heater sits in the corner beside a stand, which holds a thirteen-inch rotary dial television with a toaster oven balanced on top of it. A twin cot is folded up by the door. Everything is covered with decades of dust, and there is evidence of critters using the shack as a home base.
Yuck.
I walk back outside and take a deep breath of clean air. I stop at the truck and open the passenger side door. A silver urn sits in the seat, secured by the seat belt.
“Hi, Momma. Are you ready?” I ask.
I carefully pick up the vessel holding her remains and take her for a walk around the property line, I discover many hidden treasures: blackberry bushes, muscadine vines, honeysuckle, and a huge oak tree by the shoreline with a rope swing—perfect for taking a running jump and splashing into the cool water. A coal stove with a grate for cooking sits by the bank, and I see remnants of a campsite. The place has been abandoned since my grandfather’s passing, so I imagine fishermen or hunters have been using the land, not realizing it’s private property or not caring anyway. When my eyes fall on the ruins of an old playhouse, I know I’ve found the spot.
I walk over and slide my hands over the rotting wood. My grandfather built this for my mother’s birthday. She told me and Lynn many stories about her and Aunt Rhonda playing in this little house and how she dreamed she’s have us one day. Her babies to love.
I open the lid and begin to pour her ashes just as a gust of wind sails in off the water. I watch as it lifts her and carries her across the land. Leaving a sprinkle of her everywhere.
“You’re free now, Momma,” I whisper.
I stand here for a long time as tears flow. They’re happy tears because I kept my promise and brought her back to Balsam Ridge.
After I compose myself, I return to the truck and I grab the No Trespassing signs along with the hammer and nails I purchased at the hardware store in town from the backseat of my truck and post them around the perimeter. It’s not that I mind others using the place, but now that I have inherited the property, I don’t want to risk anyone getting hurt or having a hunting or fishing accident out here.
I make a mental list of what I’ll need to start the cleanup. A lawn mower, weed eater, trash cans, mouse traps, and cleaning products to start. Maybe a coat of paint and some new stain would spruce up the appearance of the shack. Some outdoorsman might find it efficient for a camp for themself or their family.
My phone dings with a notification, surprising me.
I get service out here?
It’s a text from Erin, asking if I have plans for the evening.
My finger hovers over the keyboard as I debate on lying. It’s not that I don’t enjoy her company. I find her to be quite amusing. She’s the first person I met when I arrived in town, and she immediately treated me like we’d known each other forever. She’s invited me along to parties, lunches, and even the town’s fireworks display. I even like her friends, but it’s awkward for me. I’m not great with female friendship. I’m the girl who finds most girlie things annoying. I always say or do something that offends them at some point.
So, why bother?
The phone dings in my hand again.
