CABIN by Dorothy-Jean (Dody) Christian Chapman

Testing the kitchen porch for stability, Ray moved his tall frame gingerly about the floor boards. Once he had established a safe path for us to enter our log cabin, each of us tracked his steps like cats stepping in deep snow. The kitchen had but one ceiling light. And that was only a 40 watt bulb. At least we had electricity. Moving about the kitchen, discernable features loomed eerily in the dim light. A wood stove in the center of the room with a chimney careening up and off to a 90 degree angle to meet the kitchen wall seemed ill-placed. Ducking to avoid the stove chimney, we viewed a gas cookstove whose proximity to the woodstove brought visions of the explosive variety to mind. Shaking that scene off our collective minds, we could now focus on the teal green 60s refrigerator across the room shaking uncontrollably. Must be capacitor problems. Its innards revealed moderately rusted shelves and a defunct freezer compartment. But its light worked. Simultaneously, our children asked us, "Did poor people used to live here?" And without a nanosecond's hesitation, we answered, "They do now!"