Born in the suburb of Highland Park, nestled near the heart of St. Paul, I could hardly call myself a country kid. If anything I was as city as they came.
However, every weekend growing up, I was able to shed that identity for the country kid inside of me, if you could call it that, by heading to our family cabin. It was a two-hour drive, and I was forced to read the entire way — no electronics. Once we got there it was straight to work, cutting grass, taking the cover off the boat, and more. But it wasn't work, it was fun. I got to be a kid in a way that fewer and fewer kids today are: let loose outside to do whatever I wanted.
The cabin was a teacher, one of the best I've had. It taught me to be brave when learning how to ski (which has become a favorite hobby). It taught me patience when learning how to fish, and subsequently how to handle defeat when we rarely caught anything. It taught me awareness, because your marshmallow will be up in flames if you take your eye off it for a split second. It taught me creativity. The annual contest for who had the best scary story around the campfire was always competitive.
Most important, though, the cabin taught me the value of family. Away from all the distractions that come with the city, you really do come to value the interactions with one another. It puts people on a more intimate level. The cabin had a certain sense of quiet that makes you more conscious of those around you and, to be frank about it, when there's nothing else to do, you tend to interact more with your family out of necessity.
What I appreciate the most about the cabin was its resilience to time. Year after year, summer after summer, it remained unchanged. No matter when I walk through the door, the place always feels like we just walked out. Everything is right where we left it, ready for us to pick up where we left off.
Today, we have new cabin, in Spicer, Minn., but the feeling hasn't changed. No matter what's going on or how scattered I feel, it's reassuring to know that the cabin is there waiting for us, ready with more grass to be cut and with more memories to make.
Shaymus O'Brien, St. Paul
