There are some memories that come into my head with no apparent invitation. This morning it was a recollection of a cabin where I used to go to summer camp. No particular moment or event, just the feeling of that place. Ramoca.
It had a central great room with black and white checkered tiles. The walls were made of huge logs and the surrounding area was once an open meadow tucked in the foothills of Colorado. There was a grove nearby that got smaller as I got older, both because of the populating development and my own perspective.
Mostly I remember the caretaker, though not his name. He was an old man who told funny stories and had a cotton candy machine in his house. He would find these red stones on the forest floor and then use a wire brush to rub away the red powder, leaving behind a white stone rose.
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