I was thirteen the first time I stepped into an abandoned log cabin. My cousin Shane and I were hiking in an extremely dense, remote area in North Carolina when we happened upon a place I can’t seem to forget. It stood there, frozen in time, nestled by a stream and completely abandoned by owners who had apparently left everything exactly as it had been on the day they left.
There was a kitchen, a bedroom and one closet. The table was set for one. One cracked plate. One spoon. One pot on the stove, covered in dust, eaten by cobwebs. One lacey dress, yellowed by decay hung delicately on a peg in the back of the door… and there were letters. So many letters. Letters everywhere. Stacked carefully on the table, thrown carelessly on the floor, lain gently on a now-rotted mattress. Who were they? I never found out. I wanted to take some, but somehow felt as if I would be stealing time’s secret. So I left them – opening only one to read a detailed account of a month long visit to “Aunt Susannah” in Raleigh. The date? March 24, 1863.
Sadly, these images are not from that cabin. This place is a little closer to home… about 10 miles to be exact~ but I thought the story might pair nicely with them.