The LodgersIt could not have sounded more divine.

Tall, shadowy pine trees; a bubbling creek with clear, pure water; meadow upon meadow of swaying wildflowers; temperature in the seventies, and a cute little log cabin with a loft at a lodge.

When my husband suggested we get away for the weekend and celebrate my birthday in the White Mountains, I couldn't have been more enthusiastic.

To Arizonans, the White Mountains are an incredible escape a mere four hours' drive away; to the rest of the world, they're the place where logger Travis Walton said he got sucked up by a UFO and then disappeared for five days while aliens put things in places unseemly. To me, they were a place with no phones, no television sets, no computers, no fax machines, just a cabin with a wood-burning stove, a feather bed, and a forty-degree drop in temperature, which I especially needed since I had just received a zipper burn on the back of my neck from my dress by engaging in the mortally dangerous activity of going to get the mail while it was still sunny outside.

When I told my mother about my birthday plans, she simply said, "Must be a popular place. Your sister is heading up there, too, but at least her boyfriend sprang for a fancy hotel. Why won't your husband pay for a hotel? Why are you staying in an old shack with a woodstove? How can that be fun? I bet you'll leave with a nice case of lice."

"We're not staying in a shack. It's a cabin with a feather bed and a loft," I said, thinking that she was one to talk. I've spent a great deal of time and effort in therapy trying to forget the majority of my family summer vacations. They were spent driving roughly far enough into the desert and away from our house that we couldn't physically run back to it after it was discovered that my parents had only sprung for one hotel room for the five of us and it was 117 degrees outside, making escape far too sweaty an option. To make matters even more closely resemble the comfort level of Guantanamo Bay, my mother consistently struck a claim for one of the double beds as we entered the room by throwing her purse on it, digging out her bottle of Tylenol and her pack of Winstons, and then sprawling out with her eyes closed and her hand over her head. This not only left the rest of the family one bed for cramped quarters but created an undeniable bounty of opportunity for pinching, slapping, and pushing between my sisters and me and sometimes even my dad, to which my mother would respond by roaring from her yacht of a bed two feet away, "SHUT UP all of you! If you people haven't noticed, I'm on VACATION!" We were additionally blessed as a slight, cool drizzle fell like mist as soon as we drove into the lodge driveway and then checked in. As I opened the door to the White Mountains cabin, it was exactly as I had pictured it--well, outside of the shag rug and the black fur of mold in the shower. My husband sighed peacefully, put his hands on his hips, and looked around. "A whole weekend of this!" he commented excitedly. "Can you even believe it? Listen. I don't hear a thing but that slight prattle of rain hitting the tin roof."

"Wow," I said, smiling wide. "To think, four hours ago, the seat belt left a burn so extensive we could have added a side of A.1. and called it dinner."

I unzipped my bags and unpacked my array of snack options, then stood gazing out the window at the steady, patient dribble of rain. My husband spread out on the couch and cracked open a book. "This is the life," he said with a smile before he started to read....