Jen's Column / Up North

I'm starting this column from a gas pump in Motley. I've just wrestled my laptop from the bag wedged at my feet while my husband's inside buying a cup of coffee. I'm not even sure the kids know we've stopped; they're watching Pirates of the Caribbean on the DVD player strapped to the back of my seat.

We're on our way home from our annual "MEA weekend" trip to the cabin — the trip where we close everything up and let the mice take over for the winter. (This is one of those times when I use the word "we" liberally. While Jay did stuff with fuses and oil pans and compressors, I swept the floor and folded blankets.)

We've been on the road for what feels like three days. (That stop at Larry's Pizza in Wadena lasted a lot longer than it was supposed to.) It's 2:58 p.m. and we still have 215 miles to go.

Still, I have to write fast because I'm scheduled to fall asleep in about 30 minutes. My plan is to get through St. Cloud — and maybe even make it to Minneapolis — before waking up. I get such a thrill opening my eyes after a good nap and deciphering where we are.

"Wow! Look how far we've gotten!" I'll say. "This trip isn't taking long at all!"

And Jay, who will by then be on his third cup of gas station coffee, will deadpan, "Yah, it just breezes by."

Our cabin is a "cabin cabin" — the kind Laura Ingalls might've lived in. Not that other kind of cabin — the kind people call a "cabin" but is actually a great deal nicer than any house I will ever live in. Located in the woods near Itasca State Park, our cabin can only be described as rustic. We're talking an outhouse, a woodstove, and furniture straight out of the 70s.

Because it sits roughly between my and Jay's hometowns, it's become a gathering place for our families. Which is really the whole point. It's where nine little cousins drive Grandpa's go-cart and turn fallen trees into jungle gyms. Where the crock-pot is always filled with a concoction that includes sour cream, barbecue sauce or exorbitant amounts of cheese. Where there's no Internet access, no telephone, no cable TV.

The best part for me is feeling like a part of our greater family. The cabin is where I play spoons with my nieces and Smear with my parents. Where we sit around the campfire and roast marshmallows at 10 in the morning. Where my three-year-old nephew, who sees me infrequently enough to feel shy at his arrival, will spend the rest of the weekend holding my hand and teasingly calling me "mom."

Weekends at the cabin are so simple and calm and slow that Jay and I play the "What if…." game from the moment we arrive

"What if we moved here….?" I say.

"What if I opened a bait shop…?" Jay says.

"What if I ran a little coffee shop and made homemade cookies…?" I add.

But, now, at 3:24 p.m., as we travel south on Highway 10 on that familiar Sunday-afternoon trek back to our real lives, our "What ifs…" change flavor.

"What if we have our neighbors over for a potluck on Halloween?" I say.

"What if we put a shed next to the garden next summer?" Jay says.

"What if the cat is so angry that we've been gone that she vomited on our bed?" I add.

I frequently whine about how far we live from family — about the hundreds of miles to our little "up north". But the drive is actually a blessing. By the time we've returned to Rochester, the shift is complete. We're mentally, as well as physically, home.

And tomorrow morning — when I wake up on a mattress that doesn't hide a sinkhole in the center and sit on a couch that doesn't double as rodent hotel? I'll be even happier.