The Unwritten Rules

The first to wake makes the coffee.

We have never made anyone agree to this out loud. It is simply how things work, and we have noticed it falls apart on the weekends nobody talks about.

The screen door slams. We do not fix it.

The slam is the cabin announcing itself to the woods. Some part of you needs to hear it.

Every cabin has one chair that no one sits in. We do not move it.

Possibly it belonged to someone. Possibly it is angled wrong. The reason is no longer the point.

If the dog is wet, the dog gets the porch first.

Let the dog dry on its own time, with its own dignity. Do not towel a happy dog.

Friday's first meal is simple. The week was long.

Bread, cheese, the soup we froze in March, a beer. Anyone who proposes a project before nine on Friday night is asked to set the table.

Saturday belongs to the lake until two.

Or the trail, or the mountain, or whatever is out the door. Errands and groceries wait. The weather is not coming back.

The fire is built once a day, in the late afternoon. It is built right.

Three logs, kindling laid in a square, paper torn slow. We are not in a hurry. The fire is the room from five o'clock on.

Phones live in a basket near the door. The basket is wood.

We are not going to be doctrinaire about this, but everyone is happier when the basket is full.

Guests bring something.

We do not specify what. A loaf of bread, a bottle, a book they finished on the drive. The bringing is the rule, not the thing.

The towel that has been on the dock since 1998 stays on the dock.

It is not a towel anymore. It is part of the dock. Do not bring it inside, do not fold it, do not retire it.

If a thing in the shed almost works, we do not buy a new thing in town.

The half-functional rake, the hose that leaks at the second connector, the fine old chisel without a handle. We get to it on Sunday morning, or we don't.

The kitchen knife is sharpened on Sunday morning.

A dull knife is the cabin telling on us about the rest of the week.

There is one window that does not close all the way. We have made our peace.

Every cabin. Always. We sleep with a wool blanket on top of the duvet for that reason and we are not less happy for it.

Sunday afternoon is for fixing the small thing.

The cabinet that doesn't latch, the lamp with the wobbly base, the screen with the corner pulled out. One thing, fixed all the way, before we drive home.

There is no schedule. There is daylight, and there is firelight.

Meals happen when people are hungry. Beds happen when people are tired. We have not worn a watch up here in years.

A book left open, face down, is a promise to return. Honor it.

Do not close it to save the spine. Do not insert a marker. Some readers know where they were and want to come back to exactly that.

The last person up turns off the porch light.

The porch light is the cabin's nightlight. Whoever is awake last accepts the small responsibility of putting it to sleep.

We leave the cabin tidier than we found it. Even our own.

Especially our own. The cabin we come back to in three weeks is built by the version of us who is leaving today. We take the trouble for them.