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Victor’s Cabin
Victor stared at the little iron woodstove sitting in the middle of the room.He liked the glow it gave off; nothingwas capable of giving off the sameglow. He contemplated the patterns onthe side of the little potbellied stoveand he thought of the days gone by.He remembered the days in the citywhere life never seemed to come to ahalt and thought of his decision, as heoften did on these cold wintry days. Hewondered why he had decided whathe had, and why had he abandonedthe life he had in the city? He thoughtof his father lying on the sofa, cold,lifeless. He remembered the shock andfear. He remembered asking why andwanting to start his life over. He oftenthought of those days, thoughts thatwere not troubled by anger or grief. Hehad been able to overcome that hehad learned that as things must live sothings must die. He had made the
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decision to live his life by himself where he could think. He had built thecabin that now provided a roof overhis head and went about his lifepeacefully and contentedly doing hisdaily chores and working on his littleone room log cabin. He lived a veryhappy life.For food he hunted, foraged,trapped and snared. He fished in thenearby ponds and streams. Hetrapped and snared. His log cabin wasmade out of the local pine trees andhad been created without using asingle nail. Victor had cleared the landusing only an axe and saw. In the littleclearing, he had built his log cabin,taking care to build around the stumpsleft from the trees that had once stoodthere. As he worked, he talked outloud. He sometimes ended up arguingwith himself, because he had no oneelse to argue with. In his arguments hewould often ended up yelling athimself. He would promptly respond to
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his former argument yelling twice asloudly as before. In this way he kepthimself entertained and happy. Onlyoccasionally would he feel thelonesomeness of his life. Then hewould go into the woods and findsome friendly animal or tree to talk to.He could always hear their responsesas they were spoken out loud to himright in his ear. He could alwaysunderstand what they meant toobecause in some ways they spoke thesame sort of language: the languageof survival. Because of this he neverfelt lonely.He was clothed in the warm hidesof the animals that he caught. Hesewed them together with a large bentneedle and a huge spool of toughwaxed nylon thread. When he worethe finished products when he wore hehad a very patched together andscrappy look. Since he had not shavedin the past year-and-a-half, he had theclassic woodsman look about him.
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