Wildacres Residency Day 1

I arrived back at Wildacres in the early afternoon of Monday, July 22, 2013, and was greeted warmly by Dave and Sherry.

(The director, Mike, and his wife, Katherine, who I met during the writers retreat, are on vacation. I wonder where people who live at Wildacres go on vacation. Of course I am from Cape Cod, so people may ask that about me.)

The Owl’s Nest cabin is even more beautiful and comfortable that I had hoped. There is a king-sized bed, three easy chairs, a writing table, a full kitchen and bathroom. The main room is open to the peaked roof and is about 30 by 45 feet. It is a real log cabin with huge tree trunks forming the main beams. It seems to be the same style as the cabins built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. At the south end there is a modern kitchen and bathroom with a sleeping loft above. The cabin is located about a mile down the Wildacres Road from the main campus of the Wildacres Retreat.

The staff member who cleaned the cabin said a black bear has been sighted regularly around the cabins. This used to be the only residency cabin, but the Wildacres staff built two more this year.

I spent most of the afternoon reading journal entries left by previous artists and writers in residence. I feel like I have been initiated into a wonderful secret society. I love it. I am going to relax this evening and write a lot on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Perhaps Sunday too—we’ll see.

In the evening I drove the mile up the mountain to the main campus, where I had dinner at the staff table with Dave and Sherry and their children, plus two other artists in residence, Lona, a storyteller, and Jan, a visual artist. After dinner I went into Spruce pine for supplies—Cheerios, soy milk, and soda.

I fell asleep to the sound of rain on the metal roof. At one point in the night I awoke and found a large cricket in my bed. That inspired the following poem Tuesday morning:

Grandfathers

Last night, after trip to the bathroom,
I found a giant cricket in my bed.
It was the largest I had ever seen.
As a boy, I used to catch crickets in my bare hands,
but this one—Grandfather Cricket, I called him—was too large.
Does size in crickets come with age?
I found a two-cup Pyrex measuring cup in the kitchen.
The one-cup measure was not large enough.
A grabbed a phone book for our mountain hamlet.
It was the smallest I had ever seen.
I swiftly captured him between the book and cup.
He jumped and flailed inside his two-cup home
as I carried him to the door
and flung him out to sleep in the woods.
This morning I wonder if he—a grandfather like myself—
only wanted a soft, warm, dry place to rest his weary head.
 
James W. Kershner, July 2013, Owl’s Nest cabin, Wildacres