The Shack

I've mentioned a number of times the constancy a person experiences when raised on a rural property. The phenomenon crosses generations and allows people to realize the transience of their own existence. There are places on the ranch, I'm sure, where one can see the projects of four generations within a tiny area, all juxtaposed. Our father used to say that when a person dies, their absence makes no more difference than someone taking his or her finger out of a glass of water.

The house where we were raised is built on an old homestead, a mile from the main part of the ranch. There are four outbuildings about 100 feet from the house. They consist of the huge barn plus three smaller constructions in various stages of conservation, all having been built well over 100 years ago.

One of the smaller buildings is about 20x30 feet and has a tiny room (10x16 feet, I'd guess). The place is livable, if not comfortable, even without water.

When I was 8 or 9 years old I moved into the room when the weather warmed up, then back into the house when it got cold in the fall. It was my first try at ersatz adulthood. I had my own place and was the master of it.

The practice continued, and during a few years I stayed in the outbuilding all winter unless it was forty below zero with a wind. The room is tiny and well insulated, so it could be heated with a candle, almost.

There was an old sheepherder's wood stove in it for many years. The stove was leaky, which made the fire impossible to control, so every night was a struggle. When it got too hot, the door and window were opened, and a half-hour later had to be closed. It made for some long nights, but I was young.

As I aged, the "Shack," as we called the building, became a haven for me. When I was in high school, a good number of my friends would drive from Deer Lodge to the dances in Helmville Lodge - a trip of fifty miles. Alcohol consumption was the first order of business for us on those occasions, so most of them stayed with me on those nights.

The tiny room allowed us to drink beer and be young without offending the sensitivity of my parents. It was a sanctuary for us, and it kept people off the road after a night of cheap beer.

Many mornings the floor was completely covered by sleeping, hungover youth, and during the winter they always got up early and helped my father and me feed the heifers. It was an adventure for them, and after the cattle were fed they ate a country breakfast our mother had made. Then they headed back to town.

Over the years, many of people who stayed with me signed a small area of the wall. The names are still there, and they evoke a lot of vivid memories. A good number of the signers are gone, now, including a couple who died in Viet Nam. It's sad to see all those drunken signatures, written by the long dead at a time when life was eternal for them.

During the summers, some of our cousins would come to the ranch to work on the hay crew. and a few stayed with me in the shack. We always visited and philosophized late into the night, and one special summer we had a single LP record done by Hank Snow. We played it constantly, and by the time haying was over, I knew ol' Hank pretty well, plus I had the lyrics to every song memorized.

Of all the places on the ranch, the Shack stirs more memories in me than any other. There's the sound of my steps on the stairs, and then the creak of the door and the sound of it slamming behind me. Then there's the sound of opening the door into the room, plus the ancient odors that remain. They all cause ancient memories to float to the surface.

I become acutely conscious of my own impermanence when I remember that the door into the outbuilding has been making the same sound since before I was born, and will continue to do so after I'm forgotten. It would be nice to think that another eight-year-old will someday move into that room on his or her way to being an adult.

All my little room needs are WiFi, cell service, and satellite TV.