Memories

My Happy Place

This past weekend, my mom and I travelled to Northern California to spend time with my uncle — my Mom’s only brother — who is 83 with Stage 4 cancer. He had a major surgery at the end of March and we visited him in April, but he hasn’t been doing great and we wanted to see him again.

It was bittersweet. We were able to spend several hours over the course of two days reminiscing, mostly my mom and uncle, talking about growing up, listening to stories of my uncle teaching high school English, fun times they had on summer vacations in Santa Cruz, remembering family and common friends.

We also talked a lot about The Cabin, my happy place, built by my grandfather 80 years ago in Kings Grove, a membership community he helped create in the middle of the mountains outside Woodside, California. Over 1,100 acres of wilderness, a limited number of structures, and a few designated camping sites for members.

On Saturday, my mom and I drove up the winding roads west of Skyline Blvd to visit with my cousin Matt and his wife, Nikki.

My grandpa made several of these signs. They have withstood time and weather!

My grandma was widowed when my grandpa, a trucker, died in December 1971 in an accident on La Honda Road in those same mountains. I was two at the time, and only have one distinct memory of my “real” grandpa. Four years later, my grandma remarried Karl Hoffman, a widower, who became the grandpa I think most about, and is as real to me as if I shared his blood.

Grandma enjoyed telling the story of how they met. She enjoyed dancing, which was very popular in the 70s among her group of 50-something friends. She went to a dance, and Karl saw her across the room. They were with other people, but he called her the next day and asked her to go dancing, and the rest is history.

My grandma once told me the eight years she was married to Karl were the happiest of her life.

I spent hours every day with my grandparents. I walked to their house after school because my mom worked. My best friend lived two doors away. This was the 70s and early 80s, where we played on the street until the lights came on and rode our bikes all over town.

We went to The Cabin often. It was only a 40 minute drive from San Carlos. Sometimes just for a day, sometimes for the weekend. When grandpa asked me if I wanted to go, I never said no. Grandpa was a quiet man; I kept the conversation going for both of us. Apparently, he enjoyed it because he kept inviting me along.

My cousin Matt, who is a year younger than me, spent as much time as I did in the woods. We explored far and wide, gone for hours at a time. We once tried to walk to the ocean (eight miles away) — didn’t make it. (Matt did it years later with his sons.) We used to play in the abandoned corral on the other side of the “road” (now overgrown). When we were about nine, Matt stepped on a rusty nail. It went all the way through his foot. I ran back to the cabin to get help, so out of breath when I got there I could barely speak. We visited neighbors (spread through the mountain), played horseshoes, made up a variety of games, picked blackberries my grandmother would turn into jam and cobbler, and helped grandpa with whatever he needed. Family reunions and parties were held up there, including my high school graduation party.

As an adult, I’ve only returned to the Cabin maybe a dozen times. When my grandmother died, she gave my uncle the Cabin, because the Cabin needed a lot of work and constant maintenance. Now, my cousin Matt has the Cabin, and he’s done an amazing job keeping it in shape (and getting rid of the mice) while preserving its history. I know our grandpa would be pleased.

Me, my cousin Matt, and my mom.

Visiting the cabin last weekend brought back all these memories and more. To have a special place to visit, to grow, to learn, to explore. I loved listening to my grandpa tell stories; I wish I’d asked more questions before he died when I was 14.

Someday, I’ll ask my cousin if I can spend a week up at the Cabin when he’s not using it. (He uses it more now that he has Starlink so he can work from the mountain!) I’ll write, I’ll hike, I’ll relive my childhood. But until then, I have new memories from this weekend.

Some photos from the day.

The last thing we did Saturday was drive across the grove — up and down winding roads — to visit Karl Hoffman Point, a campsite in the Grove dedicated to my grandpa. I hadn’t been there since the dedication when I was a teenager. It was peaceful and perfect. Though the fog was rolling it, I could still see for miles.

While taking a walk through the familiar woods, I reflected on many things … the past, the present, the future. Family and tradition. Building something that lasts. Writing, of course, because it’s such a large part of my life. Mostly, I felt peace.

I miss my grandparents dearly, but I cherish my memories of them. I hope to create similar, wonderful memories for my grandson and my future grandchildren.

Thanks for reading,

Allison

P.S.

I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that WHISPER CREEK will be out in the world in less than one month! More information on my website.