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The Mountain Man Home More Than House The post rider knows my address; he’s delivered mail there for nigh-on thirty-five years. It’s called a home address. Nevertheless, I’ve known a multitude of “homes” in various out of the way, remote and trackless pieces of real estate. Granted, most of these homes are of canvas, hemlock branches, and related forest debris that harbor my rifle and me and what furniture I carry slung over well-worn shoulders. If only for a night or two, it’s where I hang my hat while on a trail far from my “address.” C’mon in and hear my thoughts on homes and houses. There’s plenty of light left and it’s definitely not cold enough for our usual fire. So prop yourself up against a tree, and let me get on with my prattle. We of the primitive nature—mountain men, longhunters, outdoorsmen, and students of nature—tend to consider homes as shelter from the elements and little more. It’s not that home life doesn’t appeal to our sense of security and contentment. In between the insistent calls of the wild that won’t take no for an answer and the domestic appeal of civilization, supper on the stove while seasoned cherry logs crackle in the woodstove is a prime picture of home life under the roof of a soundly built house. Nevertheless, in this clearing in the woods, where sets my cabin with such amenities common in houses today, a simpler, low-tech environment is apparent. Amenities include a gallon kettle on the woodstove serving as my hot water heater, a green forked stick as my toaster. For a washer and dryer, there is the tub with wooden paddle and tree limbs in the sun. The refrigerator is three feet deep in the ground and facing north. Six candles provide custom lighting, while my nightlight is the moon. I have central heating in the form of Iron Mary, a woodstove, old and somewhat airy. Utility bills arrive routinely at my address, but never at my home in the woods. I should mention my awesome entertainment center. It has surround-sound and is just outside the little cabin’s back window. When I’m lodged at the cabin, which is usually four-sevenths of most weeks, I never quite catch myself considering the wood-framed, leaky-roofed bungalow a house. Thinking like a tried and true mountain man, I see the cabin as primarily shelter from the elements. When the wind turns angry and the rain decides to relentlessly saturate all that dwells below, even a cave, or “rockhouse,” provides the man on the trail with a home. Despite the snakes, ticks, and miscellaneous residents, these pockets of rock can be surprisingly comfortable and cozy. Other than sweeping out the debris, caves are relatively maintenance free. Modern houses are not maintenance free. On most occasional trips to the settlement, I can’t help but notice the seasonal shift that stirs homeowners into manual labor—mowing, raking, and generally improving their places of residence. Furthermore, one can almost hear the swishing of paintbrushes applying the cosmetic enamel to houses throughout the Commonwealth. And there’s an abundance of saws sawing, hammers hammering, lawnmowers mowing, ladders laddering. The warm weather triggers a frenzy to build, rebuild, remodel, and generally improve the home scene. Nevertheless, these are simply buildings and grounds, and although they require upkeep, they are not going to the afterlife with their owners. Deep in the woods under an open-faced sheet of canvas, pitch black and deathly quiet, the genuine mountain man and seasoned backwoodsman knows the contentment and self-reliance that no custom home of brick or stone can offer. Maintenance-free, mortgage-free, and ignorant of established property lines, the woodsman owns no house. He does, nevertheless, have a home. The point I’m stumbling to is the certainty that a house does not, in fact, make a home. We’ve all heard “Home is where the heart is.” That’s my point. As a connoisseur of the woods and wild things, even though I live in a house with an address, my home is in the shaded recesses of the big woods. Our region can be proud of both the houses and homes that grace our magnificent landscape. The industriousness and pride of its homeowners deserves applause. And although I am mostly a citizen of the wilderness, it is comforting to hear the seasonal swishing of paintbrushes, the sawing of saws and hammering of hammers, the mowing of mowers, and, especially, the greetings from my neighbors as I pass by. Thanks for stopping by, and since reading is just hearing but seeing is doing, take notice of all the fine homes in Tioga County as you hurry to the hardware merchant for house paint. Come again when the black flies settle down. You can contact Roy at mountainman@mountainhomemag.com. Someone will walk up into the hills and make sure he gets the message. |
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