Cabin's Closing

Griff started at sun-up, when the air temperure may have been forty, boarding-up the rough-hewn cabin his family used as a weekend retreat just 2 hours' drive from Phoenix.

The structure was notched-log construction, started by his grandfather, and finished by Griff's dad and him when Griff was still in early elementary school.

He closed the main and drained the water pipes, a by-design capability his ingenious dad had plumbed to keep pipes from bursting.

The board-up, an annual event in which he sought solace, used as meditation born of physical labor, was as necessary for protection from animals as much as it was from hunters and vandals.

Elbow on his knees, Griff sat on the porch's edge resting his feet upon each of the two weather-splintered steps, his plaid Pendleton soaked in the sweat of achievement's endeavors, enjoying his bologna sandwich, a little black coffee from his Thermos, and opened a small bag of Fritos.

With his thumb and index finger's first foray into the bag, he felt he was being watched, turned to see a squirrel not eighteen inches away staring him down, and Griff sat wondering on the winter the furry little guy would experience as he surrendered the whole bag, chip by chip, hand-feeding the squirrel with a silent request that he be a herald to the other wildlife to watch over the cabin securing Griff's best childhood memories within and without.