Foreword: Once upon a time… I lived in a log cabin on a mountaintop overlooking a peaceful valley. Abe Lincoln never had it so good. That time has passed, but the memories persist. A lucky few of you readers will remember the cabin I describe below. Many others had experiences at a family vacation home in the mountains or at the shore, and have similar memories of family get-togethers.
This essay is intended to revive and sharpen those memories as well as to describe what it was like to live in a genuine log cabin. Readers who are too young to have these experiences can find in these lines some background to the family folklore they may have heard over the years. So, read on. I hope you enjoy it and if you have recollections and experiences of your own, then by all means post an e-comment. It will add your contribution to this essay.
Origins
It was the time of World War II and I think the war was a factor in my parents’ decision to buy the cabin. My immediate family consisted of parents Adlai and Elizabeth Magee and seven children (two sons were lost). I was the youngest. Our home was in Chevy Chase, Md. Dad owned a radio store in nearby Bethesda. In the early 1940s our family had made numerous weekend visits to Braddock Heights, Md., a community of boarding houses and a locally popular amusement park. WWII meant restrictions on travel and that improved business at the little resort. Although Braddock was in decline compared to earlier decades, patronage was good enough to keep local businesses going. The park had several rides and slides, a fine merry-go-round, a roller skating rink and a miniature train to ride. A nearby swimming pool completed the amusements available. A trolley brought day visitors from nearby Frederick, five miles east. A small store doubled as a post office. Jim Crow was alive and kicking in those days. I clearly remember a sign at the entrance to the park that included the admonition, “This park is for use by white gentiles and their servants only.” I recall staying at several different boarding houses, one of which was the Coblentz Mountain House. The appeal to us was that the altitude was a blessing for me (I was prone to bronchitis) and for my Father (also troubled by respiratory problems). Alas, Braddock Heights gradually deteriorated over the succeeding years. (Braddock Heights was named after Gen. Braddock, a figure in the French and Indian War. He led a force of soldiers west along route 40, an early national highway, marching over Braddock mountain, as it came to be known.)
The Cabin
It was about 1942 when my parents decided to buy a vacation home near Braddock mountain. I was seven. The spot they selected was pretty remote. If you travel north along the crest of Braddock mountain you will be driving on Ridge road. A little over a mile up the road they bought a small, two-room, tin-roofed log cabin on three acres. The lot had a west view of Middletown valley. The Potomac river gap near Harper’s Ferry, W.Va. could be seen from a corner of the lot. There was only a scattering of houses along the road in those days. The pavement ended a hundred yards before the cabin, turning into a dirt road. Farther along the dirt road on the west side were the Clipp farm and then a small dairy farm, where, in later years, I was sent from time-to-time to buy fresh milk. I suppose my parents (particularly my Father) saw the potential that the cabin and it’s location had. To a seven-year-old it was the start of a great adventure. Dad rather grandly named the place “Catoctin Oaks,” for the four beautiful oak trees on the lot, and the Catoctin mountain chain which included Braddock. This was in the Blue Ridge mountains. I can’t shed any light on who built the cabin and when. I believe my parents bought it from the Malones, who lived just south on Ridge road and who owned many acres in the area.
The cabin itself was as bare and rustic as you can imagine. No electricity, no indoor plumbing (not even an out-house), only an outside well with a hand pump for (non-drinking) water. Heat was available from a handsome stone fireplace. The interior had a large, open area with a sleep loft above the north side. And an ample supply of snake skins. There was an attached shed on the valley side, used for cooking. The description of the inside of the cabin may sound familiar to those of you who have watched the TV show, “Little House on the Prairie.” If you recall the interior of the TV house, the layout was very much the same as the cabin: a large room on one side, a central fireplace, and sleeping areas behind the fireplace (parents below, girls above on a loft). (My wife Thelma suggested I title this essay, “Little House on the Mountain.” I took a pass on that idea.)
The lack of facilities meant two things: First, the cabin could only be used for day trips. (The woods provided an open-air out-house.) Second, Dad soon began what became an almost endless series of modifications and improvements to the cabin. But the main feature of the place was the construction. Yes, it was a real, honest-to-goodness log cabin, its walls made of pine logs with mortar-filled cracks. The attached picture shows the cabin about 1950; this is a photograph of an oil painting by my sister Elizabeth. Today the painting hangs above the fireplace in my home in Gettysburg. As soon as practicable, a well was drilled, an electric line was run in, and the “valley room,” kitchen, basement and bathroom were added. All this took time, of course. Meanwhile, we would “rough it” on visits.
Here’s an interesting anecdote: Building the Valley Room required a good bit of excavation. It so happened that Camp Detrick in Frederick housed German prisoners-of-war; the prisoners were hired out to local citizens. (I think the prisoners were captured U-boat crews.) So for a time we had a crew of young, blond workers plus an armed guard. I observed that the prisoners took special notice of my teen-aged sisters whenever the girls would show up. (Of course, there were no incidents.) This memory of the prisoners tells me that the cabin’s major modifications were completed by the end of WWII.
Eventually, the cabin became suitable for extended visits.
Cabin life
When the seasons permitted, we (my parents and I) would make the one- hour drive to spend a weekend at the cabin. In summer, stays would extend to weeks, with Dad coming up for the weekend. Our family weren’t the only ones to use the cabin. Aunt Corona and Uncle Frank often borrowed it for parties with their friends, mostly from St. Ann’s parish in NW Washington. In fact, I’m sure mountain living gave Aunt Corona and Aunt Mary the idea to buy a lot next door and build a retirement home on Ridge road (now Tom and Jane Magee’s home).
From the late ’40s on, my parents hosted family get-togethers regularly. The cabin soon became the focus for an extended family. Hardly a Sunday went by without family or visitors stopping by and being served cocktails and dinner by my generous parents. Marilyn and Jack Barrett with their family were regular visitors Uncle Paul Magee would roar down the driveway in his Plymouth and before long he and his brother would be trading good-natured barbs. His sons, Paul, Jr., Jim and Bernard came by, families in tow. The Renehan cousins visited from Baltimore every summer; these were two ladies who always greeted me with big hugs and kisses, much to my embarrassment. I referred to them as the Kissing Cousins. “Otherwise” Burdett, the cabin’s building contractor, would occasionally show up with his family. (He earned his nickname from his frequent use of “otherwise”.) The Daly family and the Klaks from Bethesda were occasional visitors, as were other friends and relatives, many from Montgomery county.
Many of these visits were unannounced but Mother always seemed to be able to stretch the food available and make everyone happy. The best times were those summer days when we would have an outdoor feast — barbecued spare ribs (I was the designated cook at the BBQ pit), a bushel of steamed crabs, or fried chicken dinners were the favorites. After a softball game in the “front yard” we would have a round of cocktails while sitting on the stone patio, then line up at the buffet table for potato salad, sliced tomatoes, baked beans, buttered hot dog rolls, etc. Every family visit was made a special occasion by my parents, but there were two times each year that everyone looked forward to. Suzanne and Frank Maddox and their children returned from their home for a visit that always became a family get-together. And every August, Uncle Will and Aunt Celeste Hennessy and their four daughters would visit from Wilmington, Del., for a few days bringing a car full of treats and delicacies. Cool or rainy weather meant the feast was moved indoors. There were many days that we watched the sun setting over South mountain while sitting in the valley room.
All of these visits continued for years. Dad sold the TV/radio store in Bethesda c1951 and we moved to the cabin to live year-round soon after. The grandchildren of my parents must all have their own memories of visits to the cabin. Their number grew over the years to, by my count, twenty-two in all. Despite the large number, Granny and Paw-Paw were able to make each one of them feel special. One particular treat for visiting grandchildren was for Granny to send them up the hill to pick ripe blueberries which she would make into blueberry pancakes. That’s an example of what my Mother was like.
Dad was a special man. Two of his strongest characteristics were his integrity and his sense of humor. I’ll give an example of each trait. I used to tag along with Dad on his local business trips. One time, during WWII, Dad made a delivery of several cartons of radio tubes under a government contract he had bid on. I learned that he won the bid because his price was at-cost. I asked him why he didn’t include some money for profit and he said simply, that this was his contribution to the war effort. One clever prank that he pulled on a visiting friend involved some target practice behind the cabin. I watched him as he loaded a.22 nine-shot revolver with two different cartridges — one, a usual.22 slug, and the other a “rat shot,” a miniature shotgun shell, filled with tiny pellets. He loaded the gun with the cartridges in alternate chambers and we went out to join the waiting sucker – I mean “guest” – to fire off a few rounds. To complete the charade, Dad fixed a small piece of metal hanging on a string as our target. Let me point out that at ten paces it would be really difficult to hit a two inch wide target with a revolver. But with rat shot it would be almost impossible to miss. So they took turns firing, the guest just missing every shot, and Dad causing the hanging target to swing every time. I’m sure that friend of Dad’s went away with the impression that Dad was the best shot this side of Buffalo Bill. There is one thing I haven’t forgiven my Father for. When he was living in St. Louis many years before, an old chef gave Dad a recipe for BBQ sauce but he made him promise not to give it to anyone else. Well, Dad took that recipe to the grave rather than break his word. That’s too bad because I sure could use it to improve my BBQs.
I have my own memories of cabin life. I particularly enjoyed exploring the woods below the cabin. A telescope gave me a way of exploring the sky, and also to tell time by the clock in the white-spired Lutheran church in Middletown, three miles distant. I slept by a window facing west. On a clear night, I could actually see stars set over South mountain. I knew that was a special experience even then. And, yes, the sound of raindrops falling on a tin roof does lull you to sleep.
