Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit by James Catherine

Author:James, Catherine [James, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2007-10-02T04:00:00+00:00

11

I’d certainly got my fill of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. In my heart of hearts all I truly ever wanted was a somewhat sane family of my own, and maybe a little house in the country, but simplicity always seemed to elude me. I’d had this idea that somewhere in the universe there was a country girl who longed for the city lights. I was the city girl who longed for the heartland; it was simply a cosmic mix-up. I had a son now, and this was my chance. I could give him the life I’d dreamed of.

With the five hundred pounds I got from signing off on the Air Force album, I took my son and headed east from Los Angeles. Maybe I’d find a place in Woodstock, in upstate New York.

From our modest motel room in the rural village of Brewster, New York, I pored over the rental listings in the local Gazette. I found an ad that read, “Log cabin on lake in Connecticut. Two hundred dollars a month, call Perry Katz.”

In my rental car I followed Perry’s directions along the lakeside until the road ended and became unpaved gravel. Old Mr. Katz was parked out front in a spanking new white Caddy convertible. He sported a fancy white yachting cap, and was smoking a chubby cigar—not at all like I pictured him.

The enchanting old cabin was built of smooth, peeled cherry logs and sat on a grassy knoll overlooking Candlewood Lake. It was the beginning of October, and in the final days of a late Indian summer. The sun was softly pale and the air had a crisp chill of impending winter. The only sound to be heard was a light wind blowing through the tall surrounding Noble pines. Inside, the cabin was dark, and had the musty smell of a freshly opened, vintage trunk. Perry explained that the old place hadn’t been lived in for many years. His stately summerhouse was the other side of the lake; he only used this stead to store his old furniture, which I was welcome to use.

When he opened the dusty plank storm shutters, the cottage filled with light. The living room had a twenty-foot ceiling with heavy crossbeams and a log staircase that led up to a cozy little loft. The whole place had a peaceful tranquility, a calmness that reminded me of Heidi’s cabin in the Alps.

There was a huge granite fireplace that reached the rafters and wide floorboards of smooth pine. The surrounding porch was screened in, and paned windows opened out to a view of the pristine lake. I was home; this will be the perfect place to raise my blond three-year-old cherub.

Before signing the lease Perry asked in a hushed voice, “You don’t have any jungle bunny friends, do you?”

I’d never heard that expression before, and didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. He said, “You know, spearchuckers. I didn’t know a soul in Connecticut, and now I was really confused.

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