Welcome back to Ancient Wisdom, our Sunday series in which writers over 70 tell us how they are aging gracefully. Last week, Anne Roark, 74, and Marshall Goldberg, 78, talked about their nearly 41-year marriage—and what it took for it to endure. This week, writer Lou Ureneck, 74, explains why nature is so meaningful as he gets older.
About 20 years ago, I pulled myself out of a deep funk by building a cabin in Maine. Crafted from the lumber of trees felled nearby, it was the tonic I needed to get me back on my feet. It was a serious yearlong project that revived old skills and put me deep in nature.
The cabin still stands on a hillside of red maples and balsam fir overlooking a beaver pond in the White Mountains. It has given me a lot of joy through the years. It’s sparsely furnished—fishing rods, bunk beds, a fly-tying desk, a battery-powered transistor radio to listen to ball games, and a big skillet for making blueberry pancakes. My family and I have celebrated Thanksgiving in it; moose sometimes wander by; and I once had a bear come in through the kitchen window.
I travel there alone in late fall when only a few yellow and red leaves cling to the oaks and maples. My task is to button up the cabin for the long winter. Occasionally, I will take a break and indulge in the simple pleasure of sitting on the cabin steps in the mellow October sunshine to watch the chipmunks chase each other through a stack of firewood, or listen to geese gabbling in the pond below.
