Bender's Pond

Sprung, it has.

I spent my past weekend at the cabin working, among other things, on a commission piece for the National Eagle Center. The piece has been hard coming, but that's another show. I will write of it and post an audio file when I feel fully triumphant in the matter.

As for my little place in the woods, I am reminded of spring as the new shoots of green grass are poking foreheads skyward. Another week or so and the first mow of the season will seem logical. The bank behind the cabin is overgrown with lovely vinca minor...delicately in bloom right now with the tiniest of little violet-colored blossoms. Someone once called this periwinkle, and it's a name I very much favor. Nice name for a fiddle tune...or a pet goldfish.

My phoebe is back, making a mess of things on the west entrance landing. She and her mate have been coming back for nine years, or so it seems. I doubt a phoebe could actually last nine seasons in the wild, but every spring, the same nest gets remade with a face lift and the first of at least two clutches of flycatcher babies gets raised. I have oft wondered if the grown babes of previous phoebe generations have returned to carry on atop the familiar real estate.

Between musical notes, I resolved to give both the cabin and the outhouse a good spring cleaning. Riley is coming next weekend and we are entertaining some potential business contacts who might bring more work. Riley's going to show them the trout water whilst I unearth my most devious culinary skills in an attempt to impress them with good old Shady Grove hospitality.

(Sidebar: Alas, once again, I must enter the dark, sleazy world of food porn...my sinister alter-ego personality comes to the surface...another insecure little man trying find love and acceptance through bringing culinary orgasm to others. I mean, never mind what my mother did to make me feel this way, sometimes a bratwurst is just a bratwurst, Doc.)

But anyway... Boy!... The spring cleaning was surely needed. I really ripped everything apart and gave it the once over. Looks like a million bucks now.

Perhaps there is nothing more a reminder of spring for me than the gifts that waft across the valley from Bender's Pond. Dr. Bender lives up the valley a short distance. He and his wife have never been particularly gregarious, let alone friendly. I once formally invited them by hand delivered written invitation (along with all the surrounding neighbors in our three or four square mile neighborhood) to an old-time music party down in our little shady grove of trees, our camp down on the river. Live fiddle music, cold beer, grilled burgers and brats. They didn't come. No one else from the valley did either. Too bad, we had a great time.

Once, after a major flood, I loaded up a nice lawn chair that had washed downstream onto my property, and putted my lawn tractor and wagon up to Bender's to return it to them. That was the first time I was introduced to his wife, who said,

"Oh, you're the guy with that damn loud generator over there?"
"Well, yes, but we only used it to build the cabin," I responded. "It hasn't been run for three years."

Nothing like making a good first impression.

No matter. All oddities aside, I do like one very special thing about them...their pond. It isn't a natural body of water. It's something Bender wanted to hire made so he could watch wildlife out of his big, expensive picture window. I haven't a clue whether it required a DNR permit, what it cost, how long it took to make, or whether or not the two of them even enjoy it. All I know is that I certainly do, even though I can't see it from my own place.

But, in the nights of early and mid April, the peepers come alive in a breeding frenzy, and I am reminded that my little place in the country is once again in the rush of spring. Because of Bender's pond, ducks and geese frequently fly over my space, singing their own familiar songs. The music of Bender's pond is as much a part of my own property as anything else. It's the sound of what's up valley and just out of my sight...but not beyond the ear.

I've written songs about my cabin and the peepers, although none mention Bender's Pond. My favorite begins by telling the listener that every year it's the peepers that remind me of spring. I make a lot of music on my cabin porch and at the kitchen table there, but none of it sounds like the music up the valley on that little, pitiful, shallow pool of fishless water.

I have posted this video before, but I feel that it is most relevant at this
time of year, when the peepers are at their finest:

The Wheel Comes Around

Recaps And Late Tales

With all the distraction this past week or so...the saga of my daughter's friend, getting ready for my concert this Friday, finding time for Merle's well being and good health...there is much that I have simply neglected to blog about.

Last weekend at the cabin was the very end of March and it was snowing when I got there on Saturday. It snowed lightly through the night and there was a good inch of heavy white stuff in the morning, which thawed with a cacophonous, dripping racket once the sun emerged. The view from the cabin porch was transformed from white back to brown by 10:00 AM. It was pretty cool.

I really went through the upcoming set list for my concert with a fine tooth comb, practicing all the tunes and even coming close to blowing out my voice by Sunday afternoon. I nearly sang myself hoarse. Gary Powell dropped by on Sunday evening on his way back from south Wisconsin to St. Paul. We visited and he spent the night and made his way home in the morning. We didn't talk much politics. Good idea. I'm not too awful hot on the congress these days...and despite having given him the benefit of the doubt, I'm not feeling too crazy about the guy he voted for either. But, Gary and I seem to have found a way to keep politics out of our time together, for the most part. We sort of agree to disagree, and don't let conversations get too heated. He thinks my perpective in naive; I think his perspective is naive; and we respect each other's right to be as naive as we want to. It's kind of a beautiful thing.

I have again discovered that love can be a large can of Alpo. The cabin is always a treat for me, so I thought it appropriate for it to also be a treat for Merle in as many ways possible. Why feed him dry when I can use the opportunity to spoil him with canned? It's just once and a while, you know, and I certainly make him earn it with calm, submissive patience. It's a very joyful thing to see his eyes when he knows that pile of stuff is coming his way.

He's pretty amazing. The other day on the walk, he dropped over the bank to get a little drink of the spring as I was hearing the sound of ducks. Ahead of him in a small hole sat two pair of domestic mallards. He didn't see them for a time, but he eventually heard and then visually noticed them. His ears perked up and he froze. I said nothing. He slowly, curiously inched forward toward them, nose in the air, trying to get a sniff. The ducks had no fear of him at all and he wasn't projecting any kind of threatening energy, so they allowed him to get within just a few feet of them. Once he had his fill of how they smelled and looked, he just calmly turned around and left them there, coming to me with an invitation to play some more. Gentle soul.

Matter of fact, I have only heard him make something of a growl once. It was later at night when I had let him out for a last pee. I was on the deck in the dark and suddenly heard the tiniest growl. I walked toward him saying "Merle, what in the world?" And there, in the neighbor's yard about twenty feet from him stood a big doe, frozen, her ears at full mast. She took a snort of his smell and bounded of, and Merle, well, he just watched her bobbing of out of sight and then went to the business of taking his last pee of the day. Prey drive? What's that?

Speaking of wildlife, we all saw a big black bear on the way both to and from LaCrosse last week. Pretty rare, and the first one I've ever seen locally, despite the occasional report of a sighting. This big guy was rooting around in a cornfield, and cars were parked all up and down the highway, people gawking and taking pictures, as I was on the way into LaCrosse to teach music. Three hours later coming home, same bear, same spot, different gawkers. People say he was back the next day, too. Amazing.

That's about it for the recap. I have to go feed the birds now. C'mon Merle, wanna go outside?

Another Weekend

I'm running a little late on this blog entry. No matter, what goes around comes around, I guess.

Last weekend was the second in a row that Merle and I went to the cabin for some concert prep. I didn't hit it quite as hard this time around, since I don't want the set list to feel tiresome when I get it to the stage next week. I resisted just playing the set list over and over, in lieu of grasping for just about anything else to play and sing, so as to keep trying to aspire to performance level in my hands and vocal cords. I'll have just one more weekend at the cabin to really go over the show tooth by tooth before the magic night itself. This past weekend, therefore, felt a little more leisurely. I took more time to hike, nap and even read between having a guitar in my lap. And, it was all good.

In an effort to get my money's worth out of the unfair, punitive taxes I pay on my property, I decided to take a good hike in the woods with Merle, a first for him. We went up Peterson Hill and then out along the neighbor's field road, which they graciously give me permission to do, and eventually to the southern most ridge top woods of my 50 acres of woody hillside. I've been thinking these past months about hiking up there with my Frost River canoe pack full of necessary, minimal provisions, a small tent and a blanket, and doing a sort of "Survivorman" night. The problem is that most everything up there is on an incline, and I was pretty sure I remembered a tiny spot, overlooking the river and valley that was almost level and just big enough for a small tent or two.

We found the spot. And , I think it's a doable, fun plan. I'd like to let it get a little greener before I follow through, and, I believe it would be prudent to go up there in advance with a lopper and clear out some of the little, scrubby prickly ash that contaminates the site. That would mean I could avoid having to carry the big tool with me on the day of the adventure.

Needless to say, Merle loved the time in the woods, and I loved being there with him, exploring and thinking of how much I enjoy calling that land mine, taxes and all. After a couple of hours of woods time, we made our way back to the cabin and the guitars that were waiting there. I put a few hours in playing some old favorites and just a few tunes from the set list. Then, it seemed like the time to read a little, maybe get my eyes a little sleepy and then nod off for a little nap. I settled in on the sectional couch next to Merle with The Nasty Bits, a book by former chef and Travel Channel celebrity Anthony Bourdain. I don't know what it is, maybe his cynical sense of humor or, his stylish sense of writing about something as passionate as food and the food service industry, but Bourdain is one of my favorite guys. I'd say, if you asked me who I would most like to travel for a week with on a food and drink orgy, it would be him. Maybe he would even let me call him Tony.

The read is good. He cracks me up. And, my eyes do get heavy and eventually I go horizontal, lying down with Merle curled up at my side and I fall into a light sleep to the sound of the seasonal early birds, the red-winged blackbirds, robins, our resident phoebe and a few hearty winter carryovers like chickadees and blue jays. I am interrupted only occasionally as I snore myself awake, and then doze back into the cloudy mindset of an afternoon snooze. It's heaven, really.

The nap turns into almost an hour. Awesome, I think to myself. Getting up, I turned to the kitchen and put together a simple meal of sandwich with leftover pork loin, kettle chips, a grape tomato salad with a dollop of cottage cheese, and a cold bottle of Guinness stout. It is simple, but so very good, because anything you eat at the cabin tastes better, especially if washed down with a cold Guinness.

After the communion, I took my Nick Lucas Special to the porch and sat in my little fiddling rocker and played guitar for awhile, mostly finger picking stuff. Not much singing. Merle stuck his nose in the air and just enjoyed the smell of being in the woods. This is pretty much how things went through the day and into the night. Bourdain, Nick Lucas, snack...you know, no major, world-changing events, just me and my cabin time. Merle and I went to bed in the loft after midnight, I myself, feeling like the day had been productive.

Next morning, it was all about Raisin Bran and fresh coffee at first. I quickly turned to the need for music and started playing after that. Then, Merle and I needed our morning walk, so we went afoot and took a break. Returning from the morning migration, I made one more cup of strong coffee and settled back in with Tony. More good prose from the king of caustic.

Along around four o'clock, I noticed Merle's ears perk up and I turned and looked out the window only to see that my buddy Riley had just pulled in. He had come to fish and told me he knew I needed to rehearse and that he wouldn't distract me. Actually, I had probably played as much as I wanted to that day, and I told him to go trout fish and when he got back I would put on a real spread for him.

A few hours later, when he returned, I had supper just about ready. I had warmed chops of leftover, grilled pork loin with some garlic; designed and executed a lovely dark green salad with thinly sliced onion and red bell pepper, dressed with a tart, homemade vinaigrette; gently cooked some sliced carrots with sweet sweated onions; and then, of course, I also made Riley's favorite, cabin potatoes, to be served with a delicious glop of sour cream.

Oh, cabin potatoes. So simple and so wonderful. Heat your oven to 350. Cut your washed potatoes in half lengthwise, skins on, and slather them with olive oil. Salt and pepper. Then, and here's the trick, place them cut side down in a preheated, oiled cast iron skillet. Bake until brown, gorgeous and crispy. Usually, at least an hour. So, we ate like kings again. And, we talked about fishing and music and birds of prey and dogs and small town politics, among other fare.

After dinner, Riley played my Nick Lucas for a good while and told me that when I die, that's the one he wants. Then, he asked me to play something, maybe a Neil Young song, if I had one up my sleeve. I grabbed my Guild F-40, which I keep tuned a full step low, and sang Sugar Mountain. That led to more music. When we realized it was really late, we hit the rack.

Riley was up and gone early to get to work on time. Another day with a few more good cabin memories to file away. Not bad for a couple of old guys and a resuce dog.

The Cabin In February

I took my first overnight trip of the year to the cabin yesterday.

I loaded a small cooler with some pork ribs, a yellow zucchini, a potato, an onion, some carrots and a few Irish beers. Merle was happy to go, as always, and he was quite comfortable sharing the back seat with a guitar case. We left at 1:00 PM on a sunny, cold February day...just twenty-five minutes to my cabin in the woods.

Upon arriving, I had a pang of doubt that my little Geo Metro would crunch through the remaining snow on the little road to the cabin, but we made it. Not much to unload once we got there. Traveling light this time. I fired up the gas furnace and put on my insulated coveralls, and then gathered up some paper and struck out into the woods to the fire ring. Before long I had a blaze going. I thought of the first time Riley and I sat on the humble benches there in the mid winter, all bundled up in our coveralls in a light, gorgeous snowfall coming down as the fire cracked and we smoked cigars and sipped whiskey and visited the day away. I made a promise that today would be for him.

Merle was in dog heaven. He's pretty new to these woods, this place that Dirty Dog loved so much. But, he's got some catching up to do. At the moment, he was all about trying to get me to play chase me. Oh, I obliged a little, but mostly I just wanted to look into that fire, steep in the wood smoke and think about my blessings. Eventually, I went and got a cold Smithwick's and one of the Fuente cigars that Cole had given me for Christmas. I kept on feeding the fire, and passed three or four hours away. Finally, I realized I had better get up to the cabin and get the grill started. I was hungry enough to start supper.

Old friend Tom Martin-Erickson kept me entertained as I cooked. Simply Folk was on Wisconsin Public Radio and I thought back to when I went on their 10th Anniversary tour with them...so many years back. Tom and I traveled the state together in his car...following WPR the convoy from venue to venue. Wow...was I ever young then.

As the ribs were gently smoking away in the Weber, I let Merle out to do his business, and stood at the edge of the deck while he sniffed around below me at ground level. Suddenly, a cottontail rabbit bolted up the hill and away from him with a thunderous explosion...and I thought Merle would jump out of his skin! He jumped about six feet. So much for prey drive. I laughed out loud.

I sat down for dinner with some steaming hot ribs, grilled zucchini, and mixed vegetables cooked in tin foil, hobo dinner style. It was dark outside by then. There's nothing like the taste of your own grilled dinner in your own cabin in the woods. Something special about it, really. It's like the cabin is a magic culinary ingredient that makes everything taste better. Although, I know that if Riley had been there he would have been disappointed that I didn't do up a batch of my cabin potatoes. Next time, Riley.

After dinner, I relaxed on the couch with a small glass of single malt scotch. Eyes getting drowsy now. The radio was droning gently in the background and I marveled at the interior of my cabin in the low light of a few candles and one humble fifteen watt lamp, remembering when we had built this refuge from the dirt up. Just look at it now. Stuff hanging all over the place, memories. Still smells of the red cedar we covered the walls of the great room with. Vicki's brother Ron harvested the trees from the farm she grew up on and sawed the boards for us with his mill. Nine years ago and it still smells good.

I don't let Merle on furniture at home, but this isn't home. I invited him up on the couch and we curled up together, him leaning into me for a good scratching as I stared at the stealthy ceiling fan going round and round and round in circles.

I woke up about twenty minutes later. Better get up now or go to bed. Too early for bed. I relocated to the table and put a little Martin 00-15 in my lap and tuned it to DADGAD tuning. I felt like singing Oh Susannah...been a favorite song of mine since I was a little kid. Been a fan of Stephen Foster since I was a young man. I am reminded that in my song "Where Have All My Heroes Gone?", the line "say a prayer for good Stephen" is a reference to him. Not sure if anyone ever knew that.

I sang a few songs, picked a few more. This is part of what the cabin is about. Alas, no inspiration to write a new one this night. Another hour or two passed, and I got to feeling tired. Looked at the clock. It's 10:30 PM. Holy crap. If I were home I wouldn't be going to bed for two, maybe three more hours. Well, that's the cabin. No TV to stare at like a zombie. There is, however, a very comfortable bed.

I turned in then, setting a timer on my Grundig radio to shut off after 60 minutes, and began listening to a 1957 episode of X Minus One on Old Time Radio Night. C'mon up Merle. It's OK. Good boy...come lay down up here. I put my arm around his neck and shut my eyes. I am long gone before the radio shuts off.

The morning was crisp. There was such a light trace of snow falling that, when you looked toward the east and into the sun, it looked like pixie dust was fluttering down from the heavens. It was such a light flake that nothing was gathering on the ground. I put some water to the burner to make some chamomile tea. Merle bowed down with a good morning stretch, with his front paws outstretched and his butt high in the air.

I picked up the guitar and cleared my throat and started my day with Susannah.

Cabin Seeds

In the second year we owned our property, after a good deal of landscaping (sweat equity) and camping...and just loving our private place in the universe, I was talking with my father one day about how I wished I could afford to build a cabin.

"What's stopping you?" he asked.
"The money"
"What's the difference, you're already making payments."
"OK, but I don't think I can afford to add on another sixty grand."
"Oh hell, what makes you think it would run that much?"
"I don't know. Don't know nothin' about building materials and labor and dozing and all that."
"Well if we did it ourselves, that's two thirds of the expense off the cost right there, and I tell you, I won't be around forever, so you'd better get your ass in gear."

My dad is best known these days for his painting, which is to say, he is a western artist, an oil painter of considerable note. However, he did spend many years in construction as a bricklayer and stone mason, and he is a damn fine one at that. My step brother, Rob, followed him in this career.

Dad has always been a builder, an artisan, a whittler and wood carver, furniture maker, a true to life renaissance man. When I was a kid, he was always building things, shelving the house, creating out buildings, carving decoys, building muzzle loaders and gun smithing, whatever. Safe to say, he knows how to make a building from the ground up...from footers to drywall.

He started me out by asking me to figure out a good spot to build my cabin, settle on a size, and draw up a simple floor plan. Then, we could make a materials list and figure out who to call for dozing a building site and digging footers. I was really wary of the cost of materials so when I told him we should build a cabin, say, 14' x 18', he said,

"Oh son,...you really want to go that small? That's pretty tiny."
"I'm a little worried about cost."
"Well it doesn't cost anything to price an estimate, you know. Worry about the budget after you've got proof it's too much. I'll tell you this, if you build it that small you'll be wanting to add onto it in another year or two. But, let me ask you something. If we build this cabin, like, 20' x 28' and put an eight foot covered porch on the front, do you think you'll ever be sitting in there saying, Gee, I'm sure sorry we built this cabin so big"?









That made sense. It wouldn't cost a thing to make a materials list and start getting some prices, so we just figured our first numbers based on the 20' x 28' scenario, and my own floor plan. I did a pretty good job for a non-architect with some graph paper, figuring in a half loft for sleeping, a staircase to it, ten foot sidewalls so there was room to stand in the loft via a two foot knee wall, a kitchen area, a great room, and a west and south entrance. The basic layout also featured lots of windows.

I didn't really want a log cabin. Popular design these days, around here anyway, are these Amish-built sqaure log cabins, but they are lazy designs. Fast and rustic. Instead of being properly dove-tailed and then chinked, they are just constructed by laying rough sawn square logs on top of one another, making for buildings that can't keep mice out and are prone to premature rot since moisture can, and is, wicked in between logs where the contact each other. They look good from a distance, but I think they are crap. I wanted a stick-built, stud construction building, so I could insulate the hell out of it. Log siding would do fine. It doesn't look like real logs, but it's attractive enough for me.

And, dad talked me out of a fireplace, even though he could have built me a gorgeous one. It made sense when he said, "You gotta cut the wood or buy the wood. Then you gotta stack the wood somewhere. Then, you're hauling it into the cabin and it's dirty and messy and the bugs are crawling out of it when they warm up. Then you gotta worry about keeping the chimney clean. And worse, most of the heat goes right up the chimney. I love a fireplace. Everyone loves a fireplace. It's very romantic. But, I tell you, if it were me, I'd go with gas. Clean, cheap and easy."

It was hard to argue with.


One might think that building the cabin down at the river would be the perfect place, but not so. The law won't allow building in the flood plain, and that's good. A cabin wouldn't last the first real flood. I decided where I wanted to build the cabin...in the woods. Dad wanted to see the proposed site, so I walked him west of the property entrance and, as it were, into the woods along the hillside. South exposure, pretty thick woods. Once we reached about 900 feet from the gate, about half way across the width of the property, in a spot that was about 60 or so feet off the valley floor, I stopped and turned and said, " I want to put it right here."

There was a pause.

"Are you friggin' insane?" he barked.
"Nope. Wanna build it right here, away from the road, in the woods."
"You got any idea how hard it is to work on this kind of an incline?"
"Won't be a problem. Larry will doze a level building site."
"Well, that's true. You're absolutely sure this is where you want it, this far in?"
"Absolutely, dad."
"OK then. We'll build her here."

To my delight and surprise, after we got prices for dozing, road building, gravel, pouring footers, and virtually all the materials for the cabin, it was a mere, miraculous $15,000. We were able to add the amount to the initial $60,000 we borrowed without a problem.

In the spring of year two then, Fortun Dozing and Excavation arrived and dozed a road to my future cabin and then a nice little building site. I had him make the road do a teardrop around the cabin site. Drive in, stay right and go right around the building and back out the way you came in. He left a beautiful oak tree right next to where the cabin would be and pushed, at my request, two gigantic rocks he had turned out of the ground right up next to the tree. He leveled a spot at the outside edge of the teardrop for an outhouse. In August, we started construction.

We had decided, no water, no electricity...which meant no frozen pipes and no monthly bill for being on the grid. I have a well on the property near the front gate, so we just haul fresh water up in big water dispensers. We also decided we would completely wire the cabin, in case we ever decided to go electric. But to start, we powered it with 12 volt DC marine batteries which we could take home and recharge. (We could also go solar one day if we chose.) The cost of the DC ceiling fan was even included in our budget, as was a gas generator to power the tools we needed to build the cabin.










I can't remember who we had in with the backhoe to dig the footers and the outhouse hole, or the company that poured the cement footers themselves. But after those two steps and the dozing, I only hired two other jobs done, a professionl roofer to come in for one morning and coach me and a team of volunteers to shingle the cabin, mostly to get us off on the right foot, and my neighbor and his brother to come in at the end and spray a texture on the drywall ceiling. Other than that, we did everything...Dad, Rob, me...and a handful of friends who would come when they could for a little help and support.

We laid the block foundation on the footers, proceeded to floor joists, laid a floor and painted it to seal it off, formed stud walls, framed out the building, installed windows and doors, covered the studs completely with a layer of plywood (not press board), sunk massive posts and built the 28' deck, covered the exterior with log siding, formed the rafters, roofed it, shingled it, constructed the loft and insulated the entire building...all by later November. It was toasty warm with a gas furnace by deer season. I shot my deer right off the deck that year. There was a good deal of interior work to finish in the spring, but we had taken the bull by the horns, thanks to my dad, and done the unthinkable. I suddenly had my own cabin in the woods.

We even had enough leftover materials to build an 8' x 12' combination two hole outhouse and tool shed. Life was good. No more squatting in the woods.

Although many finishing touches would come later, I will never forget the visual of my dad, sitting in a chair by candle light, his eyes wandering all over the interior construction of our project, praising the good job we had done.


"I'm so happy I was able to do this for you" he said. "Glad you didn't wait too long."
"Me too, dad. Me too."

Insulated, secure and ready for deer season.

In The Beginning

We'd been saying for years, "wouldn't it be great to have a little piece of property? Maybe five or ten acres?" Every married couple dreams of it, and so did we. Acreage seemed so pricey compared to a few years before. It's still that way.

I got a wild hair one year and decided to go to night school and get a real estate license. A local broker encouraged me to do so, and I took the bait. He liked my fishing business clientele...Chicago trout fishermen, and was sure we could both make a good go of selling recreational properties to them. I eventually left real estate because the business was so filthy with self dealing and backstabbing, I just couldn't remain a part of it. I now realize that God let me get a real estate license so I could find my property. No more, no less.

In the first month with my license, my broker took me to see a 72 acre parcel with trout stream on it. He thought I could match up a client to it. It was surveyed and split up into four parcels, three contiguous chunks and a 10 acre piece with a small log-sided house and garage.

I remember walking down the field road and rounding a corner into the shadiest little grove of boxelder trees, water gurgling past. The creeping charlie was all in bloom, mixing violet with the kelly green grass, and it had such potential to be a lovely little park. I went home that night and told Vicki that I had seen the most beautiful piece of land.

She said, "Really? Like it enough to buy it?" Of course I did, I told her, but it was so much more land than we could afford. I wasn't interested in the house, but I sure loved the vacant land.

I showed the property to seven or eight clients interested in land with trout stream, but as fate would have it, virtually all of them found an excuse to pass on it. Each time I returned I loved it more, and more, and more. But at $920 per acre, that was $60,000 and where in God's name would we secure that? It was insane! Why, land like this was just $400 an acre not three or four years before!

Needless to say, we found a creative way to finance it, thanks to the help of a friend and financial guru. Now, ten years after buying it, if you check into the local real estate scene, you'll find that parcels like this are advertised for three or even four thousand dollars per acre. My dad's words are still burned into my brain... "God ain't makin' no more land. It'll always be worth what you paid for it."

And then some.

In the first season, I would take off with Dirty Dog in the evenings, stocked cooler in tow, and drive into the Shady Grove, sometimes in the dark, start a fire and pitch my tent. Dirty would go and sit on the bank and wait for beavers and muskrats to come swimming by and then jump with a kersplash into the drink and try to catch them, but he never actually got one. I would sometimes just listen to the fire crackle and the river chant, and other times I would listen to the radio for news, or enjoy the Prairie Home Companion. Sometimes I took a fiddle along and squeaked for the deer and crickets.

Cole was a boy then, of ten maybe, and we would camp there together sometimes. Gracie was only two or three. Once we bought a family sized tent, we would all go when we could and spend overnight time there. But mostly, I have to say, I reaped the benefits of owning the land. Me...and good old Dirty Dog, who is now buried there. Merle hasn't yet had the chance to really know and love this place, but he will. There isn't a dog in this world who could dislike the Shady Grove.

Among my most powerful memories of that first year or two was finding myself frequnetly saying out loud, "I can't believe this is mine" while I stared into the popping campfire, one hand on Dirty Dog, and the other on a long neck bottle of cold beer.

We make a bond with the land we own. And, even though it could be argued that we only put our name on the paperwork for a while, and then it passes to the stewardship or abuse of another, owning land carries with it a pride like no other, and the dream of owning our own land is a worthy aspiration. Once you have some, you realize what a blessing it is to call it your own.

The Just Of It

Alright then...

This is what and where this blog is all about. I built this cabin in the woods, from the ground up, with the help of my father, brother and a few friends. I write songs here.


This my front porch, where I grill ribs, bond with nature, sit on my porch swing with my dog, play guitar and enjoy good cigars, sometimes with a delicious taste Irish whiskey:


This cabin sits on 62 acres of land which, I might add, I pay an absolutely criminal amount of property taxes on, just for the privilege of saying I own property with a cabin in the woods. I really loathe property taxes. Most of this property is wooded hillside, but I do have a little tillable acreage, a killer fire pit in the woods and some river frontage on the Bad Axe River.


I used to have to mow about four hours a week on my tractor, because I kept a couple of acres down by the river all maintained like a private park for my family. However, the 500 year flood of 2008 decimated my river frontage and even now prevents me from getting my mowing machine in there to do the work. I don't really want to show you any images of the damage, because it's a quite painful thing to see.

Needless to say, I now spend the better part of my time at the cabin. That's the just of this blog. It's all about what goes on at the cabin. Sometimes music, sometimes just relaxing, sometimes visiting with friends who drop over for an evening.

Hopefully this winter will be done soon so I can get over there and start enjoying the place. Snow is little deep right now. Hard to get my Geo in there.