A space outside of time

As I write this, I am on an escape trip to our family cabin in northern Minnesota.  There is only a coating of snow on the ground. The temperature is slightly above freezing. There are 13 inches of ice on the lake.

But most importantly, it’s a space outside of time.

Perhaps Dave Zika, who has all the answers, can explain why time spent at the lake is different from time spent elsewhere. I’m sure he and I will be able to construct a lengthy conversation on the topic.

But somehow, here, the everyday pressures which push and pull on us, seem muted.  Maybe, like sound, they are muffled by the trees.

Somehow, at the cabin, the basic tasks of cooking and (in winter) keeping the fire going are all that’s needed. There are no expectations to be met, no challenges to overcome.

Our little cabin is quite remote and unquestionably rustic. It was previously owned by an aunt and uncle who were generous enough to let my family group come for a stay nearly every summer. Over my 55-year history with the location, it has had indoor plumbing less than half that time. Even now, in winter, we have the well inactivated and must make do with limited water use.

While there are definite inconveniences there, I don’t mind “making do.”  

I’m currently working on a story about the Steele-Waseca Cooperative Electric (SWCE) service and what it takes to maintain powerlines all across the two-county service area.  Among the information I learned is that, to get electricity to their rural farmsteads, farmers back in the 1930s and ‘40s were willing to help install the power poles—a very labor intensive task which included digging the necessary post holes by hand. 

Dan Meier, operations manager at SWCE, informed me there are still some places where those “user-installed” poles are still holding up electrical conducting line.  He says one way to recognize those sections is that the poles are significantly further apart than the way they’re positioned by modern crews.  The poles also tend to be a bit shorter than the newer ones.

The reasons why come clear with a little reflection: crews used as few poles as they could get by with because installing each of them was such a labor-intensive task.  As for the height, well, compare a piece of 1940s farm equipment to the behemoths you see nowadays.  

Those twentieth-century workers would never have been able to conceive an operation of thousands of acres in size that could be operated by one or two people.

Yet they were making the future possible by placing those poles.

There, see, somehow being at the cabin in front of a glass-faced fireplace draws a person into reflection and wandering thoughts.

By the time you read this late Friday I will already be back in Waseca County, rested, refreshed, and ready for the down-home fun of the Sleigh and Cutter parade. See you there!