Waldo’s Hut
… Or : … Did that forest tree really fall down? ….
In the shadow of a long-abandoned sandstone hut on the edge of a forest, a last patch of icy snow slowly melted. The hut had stood for half a century at least. Nobody in the village, not even the nearby pen-pushing county bureaucrats paid any attention to it. There was no owner known and the original purpose of the place was long forgotten.
The moss-covered roof still did not leak, the windows still held single-pane glass, save for one. The door had been forced open sometime long ago and the rusted padlock laid on the ground. The door wasn’t ajar, so inside it had stayed dry and remotely accommodating. Not that anyone had stayed there recently, in spite of the old sofa-bed inside.
The hut housed few other things: a few novels with yellowed pages, two bent forks, a spoon and a cracked cup sitting on a countertop, a handful of old AA batteries, an old bicycle seat and, a very old porn magazine. One would not have expected that any rodents or insects had been attracted to these items. Who would have?
This was not to say that nobody had ever stumbled upon and examined the hut.
In fact, just five weeks ago a drifter spent a couple of nights there. He had left the faceless metropolis, in search of friendlier surroundings. The hut was a step on his long, aimless journey. It was a welcome, temporary abode where he was undisturbed and out of the rain. After eating up his meagre snacks and drying his coat, he packed his few belongings ( a Swiss knife was his pride possession ), stepped out, closed the entrance door and moved on.
Before him, maybe three years prior, two wandering tourists had stumbled upon the hut. They had been hiking almost all day and taking a break inside of the hut, was a bonus adventure to them. They ate their remaining sandwiches and soon left again, disappointed with the non-existing WiFi reception out in nature.
Every once in a while some kids came along and snuck in. The secluded hut fascinated their young minds. However, they never stayed very long, as they easily got bored and were slightly concerned that their parents would start wondering where they were.
A long time ago, a lone hiker discovered the hut, it was maybe back in 99. He methodically checked the place out, hoping to spot something of value. He even unfolded the sofa-bed but quickly folded it up again, after discovering that it had several spots on it and a few condom wrappers inside. He made a mental note of his discovery.
Rarely, some animals came near, mostly birds checking out the roof for a suitable nesting spot. Otherwise the existence of the hut was rather uneventful. Of course the seasons came and went. Fortunately for the hut, they caused very little damage over the years; they just furthered gradual deterioration. During one windy autumn day last year, a beech tree was knocked down behind the hut. It smashed part of the back porch, but nobody was there to notice, or attempt repair. It was part of the hut having become a part of nature, almost like an organism that participated in the cycle of life.
That quasi-cycle was rudely upset one early spring morning: a bull-dozer and a dump truck crew had shown up to take the hut down. The dim-witted village mayor had declared “Spring Clean-up Week”. As the village was generally clean anyway, a “Special” clean-up project was needed to justify having hired the crew.
In any case, no owner of the hut had ever been tracked down. That meant that no property taxes were ever paid. It so happened that this years’ operational budget of the village had a surplus. Too bad for the hut.
The wrecking crew got to business and as they knocked down the wobbly chimney, they discovered a brick with an inscription and date. It was the name of the renowned “best son” of the village, the late Waldo Chandler.
Waldo had been a celebrated ornamental blacksmith in the 1970s. Today, the State’s "Museum of Modern Art and History” had a bunch of Chandler’s works on display in a dedicated section. In the mayor’s village, only the path to the cemetery was named after Waldo: Chandler Way.
The brick made its way to the state museum while the mayor was chided for his short-sightedness of having the hut demolished. A new mayor took office later that year and her first official act, would be to commit to build a replica of the hut. It was hoped the town would gain reputation as the historic “Home of Waldo Chandler” and attract affluent tourists, from far and near.
Who cared if Waldo had ever even lived there, or used the sofa-bed?
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