The Places That Choose Us

I am reminded that life’s favorite places are not just about geography; they are about the moments, the people and the emotions that form an intricate web of meaning.

My spot in central Nebraska.

I don’t think you choose a favorite place. It chooses you. That’s how it has always worked for me anyway. A friend recently shared how her favorite place found her, and that made me think about two special places from my past.

When I was a kid, the spot that chose me was a block and and a half away, across the street from Bud’s Bar – the place Mom used to send us to buy the occasional six pack of Pepsi. This particular place was inside a large bush where a dirt floor was maybe five by five. You couldn’t stand inside the “fort” but you could sit comfortably – well … as comfortably as a dirty floor allows when you are ten years old.

The fort shielded me from traffic or other passersby and it gave me the sense that I was safe from the insults I heard about my size from other kids.

Fast forward to my mid-forties when my buddy Shawn bought a one-room, rundown cabin near his home in central Nebraska. Electricity and water were available but he didn’t have either turned on. The furniture appeared to be straight out of the 1950s. It had a faded green vinyl couch next to an orange (or maybe it was red, I couldn’t tell) chair. A cot sat in one corner, and a mini-fridge sat in another. Wood paneling lined the walls, and the kitchen looked to be in decent shape if the cabin had water and electricity (as it sat, the kitchen served little purpose).

The one major drawback was, it didn’t have a bathroom. You had to use an outhouse that spiders and other critters had long since claimed as their own. Let’s just say this picture I snapped is as close as I ever got to the inside of it.

But maybe 100 steps away, across a rickety bridge Shawn eventually replaced, sat paradise – a lake fed from the Platte River that provided amazing fishing and even better views. Shawn’s property had two docks – one where he fished from every Memorial Day and one where I fished from.

I have to tell you, I got the better end of the deal. Mine even had a nearby bench that sat overlooking the water. You couldn’t fish from the bench but you could take in the sights and sounds. 

One Memorial Day, I sat in my chair on my dock. The temperature was probably in the low seventies, which is the best you can hope for in Nebraska at that time of year (I’d like it much cooler, though). I had a transistor radio on, listening to a Kansas City Royals game. My cell phone didn’t have service, which wasn’t a bad thing at all. And Shawn and I had some fishing success that day. We had no intention of cleaning and cooking them, so when one of his neighbors passed by in a boat (see the primary picture above), we gladly handed over the stringer full of fish to them. They planned to cook them that evening for dinner. 

I don’t remember what Shawn and I talked about that day, but I’m sure we went deep because we always did. At one point, while sitting on the dock, I remember thinking it was about the best day imaginable. What I didn’t know was, it would be one of the last times I would be there. As the dues and taxes for the land increased, Shawn ended up selling the place. And then, in 2022, he died unexpectedly. 

So, here I am, left with photographs and memories of places that mean so much to me. The fort from my childhood and the serene dock by Shawn’s cabin are like chapters in the book of my life which are now closed but forever etched in the pages of my heart. I am reminded that life’s favorite places are not just about geography; they are about the moments, the people and the emotions that form an intricate web of meaning.

Perhaps, in losing these physical spaces, I’ve gained a deeper understanding of the transient nature of life. The impermanence of our earthly abodes teaches us to anchor our happiness in the intangible – in shared laughter, quiet conversations, and the simple happiness of a perfect day by the water.