I still smell the coffee.

In the mid-1960s, our family leased an old cabin near upper Summit Lake, on the Kenai Pennisula for a few years. Snug, at about 300 square feet, it was just large enough for a family of six, a goofy black labrador retriever we called Festus (named for a deputy on the television show Gunsmoke) and the lifelong imprint of memories still holding ground in my mind.

Winter nights were spent listening to the sourdough voice of Ruben Gaines as he spun tales and poems through his evening KBYR radio show called Conversation Unlimited. During his airtime, he shared messages back and forth between families who had no other means to communicate with each other. This portion of his show was called Trapline Chatter. Ruben relayed exchanges between Alaska families that were important, mundane or ridiculous. “Soapy Stone in Wrangell says ‘hi’ to Butch, Karen and the gang in Galena. Don’t let the snow build up against your door or we might not see you ’til spring.” He’d also relate grocery lists and travel itineraries. Ruben concluded each show with my favorite piano orchestration, Clare de Lune. We’d settle into sleep listening to that song. The title of Claude Debussy’s Clare de Lune means ‘moonlight’ which couldn’t have more appropriate when the stars, glow of the moon and Big Dipper indeed provided the best light of the evening. To this day, I’ll pause, exhale and sigh when hearing it play.

Waking up in the morning in that cabin was always peaceful and pleasant. The sound of a crackling fire meant that dad had stoked the wood stove. The cabin would soon be warm again as we four kids snuggled in squeaky bunk beds that were probably used by gold miners many decades earlier. Our blankets were long enough to bury our foreheads into as we waited for the cabin’s old logs to warm up again, though our toes sometimes competed with our faces for coverage with the smell of Folgers coffee in the air as it percolated on the stove.

This was how we started each day in that grass-roofed log house, called “The Disney Cabin.’ It was so named because the elderly out-of-state owners who allowed us to use and care for it shared the same last name as Walt Disney. We don’t know if they were related to Walt but, then again, the cabin certainly held a century of stories that could easily capture any writer’s imagination.

But now, fast forward with an awkward transition as I wake to the present and a sentimental revelation.

It’s six decades later. My border collie Beau and I were traveling to Kenai. For some reason, I was compelled to stop in to visit the empty lot that once held The Disney Cabin. It burned down decades ago. I’ve passed by the property hundreds of times, always turning my head and remembering snippets of Disney-esque fishing, hiking and growing up stories.

I walked past old squirrel nests while remembering the many porcupine that gnawed on the old spruce logs of the cabin. I listened to Quartz Creek as it gurgled through new ice forming along its edges. The creek flows 25’ downhill from where the cabin used to rest. Oh, how I remember hauling buckets of water up the slope from that creek in the morning and again each evening. We tried our best to fill the buckets to the brim and not spill a drop along the way.

Walking on the ground that used to be home to the cabin, I saw something a little further in the woods. I was stunned to see a remnant of my childhood. It was a building that has remained standing for more than 60 years. It was the original cabin outhouse. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought “Wow, those miners really knew how to build a place to, you know, ‘spend important thinking time.’”

I peeked through the door of the outhouse while admiring the antique hinges and the hand hued toilet paper holder. Inside, I saw a familiar water bucket that most certainly recognized me as well. I noted that we both have in common some wear and tear from years of neglect. Inside the water bucket was a 60-year old Folgers Coffee can. Rusty after all of this time, it was another relic of days gone by. Its edges had the familiar markings of sharp burrs indicating it had been opened using one of our old hand-held can openers, the same tool that opened cans of beans, spam and other staples of the day.

Standing in the middle of that old forest, I could almost smell a familiar “Mountain Grown” coffee aroma. I imagined a piano echoing in the distance as chickadees sounded off in the trees. I listened. And I think I heard the sound of children. They were the voices of me, my brother and sisters, laughing, splashing, and playing. Not a care in the world.

What a chapter. All brought back because of an old coffee can, a dependable creek, water bucket and a weathered old outhouse that seems, like my mind and body, stubbornly determined to remain standing.