Time Stood Still

He opened the choke, pulled the cord
it took a few times
before we were headed down
the pond
slowly,
he trolled for fish
through the no-wake zone.

The stern
was loaded with gear,
fishing poles,
tackle boxes
with sinkers, bobbers
and the latest and greatest
lures,
the bow was weighted down
with a canvas bag loaded with
books, magazines
a journal,
water,
snacks
sunscreen and natural bug repellent-
ready for the long haul.

Once in the open water

the boat sped passed
islands
rounded mountains ahead
evergreens shadowed,
we motored along
the outboard robbing
our sense of hearing,
sights heightened
thick trees as far as we could see
on either side of the water.

We headed in the direction of the beach
mounded with bits of pink granite,
he killed the engine in a cove across the way,
water lilies dotted the area
a warm breeze lifted the sweet scent,
he dressed his line with a worm,
flicked the pole,
the line reaching,
the boat drifted
and he paddled us
into the perfect position
where he swore he was going to
catch a fish,
while I snapped photos of the lilies,
read, journaled
leaned my back against the bow,
watching my husband
so happy
the sun shining on us,
as time
stood still.

Life's Etchings

It has been nearly a decade since my husband held his father’s hand for the last time.  His father was an old Mainer set in his ways.  “You need a haircut!” were words for every boy and man whether he knew them or not. His thoughts no matter what they were would spill into the air. He was opinionated and stubborn, yet there was a soft side to this burly brisk man. 

 As soon as the children poured out of the car at camp, he scooped them into his arms and found a place to sit.  With food. One of his favorite places to sit was on the porch at camp.  His chair an old green plastic one was set at the head of the table. The table and chair situated just so to watch the comings and goings on the pond, affording a long view of water leading to the mountains.  With a child or sometimes two settled onto his lap, he sipped water while scooping ice cream or pudding into gaping mouths. The grand babies were assuredly sustained by love, food and camp.  Later, the children would line up to be flung into the air by his strong arms, little legs dangling, dragging to and fro through the cool water. The air pierced with squeals of delight beckoning a turn, “Grampy! Grampy!” On some days, the older grandchildren accompanied Grampy down the end of the pond taking turns with the oars. The orange life jacket hiked up beyond their oversized ears.  The boat trip often included releasing grumpy, loud bull frogs down to the far end of the pond so there could be some sleep from dusk and into the dawn,at least for one night.

When not by the water or chopping wood, Grampy would sit in his green chair at the grey formica table to sip coffee, whoop Grammy at Yahtzee and eat green pimento olives straight from the jar with a tiny delicate fork.  

Even after all these years since he left this world, the table and chair remain.  I rub my hand on the surface of the table where he sat.  The finish worn and scratched.  I feel a lifetime etched into this place, telling of a man who has created a legacy of traditions for generations to come.

a gathering

The smoke followed me wherever I sat.  I'd change seats and the wind would shift.  My decision to stand was a practical one, so that I could easily avoid the smoke with a shuffle of a few steps to the left or to the right.  The fire kindled easy conversation as we talked about things like knitting, Gatorade flavors, sun screen and bug repellent.

Maybe the fire did not ignite some ancient longing to gather around a blaze and talk, but something did.  Maybe it was the first weekend that we have had late spring worthy weather, maybe it was the fact that this place holds such family history since my husband has been coming to this spot since he  was three or maybe it was that most of my children and significant others were gathered here.  Nothing makes us happier; our already big family is growing. And you know, this is just the beginning.

Camp

The black flies joined in force trying to irritate and send us from camp fleeing. We waved them away, swatting fearlessly as they dispersed, but only for minutes at a time. Despite this late spring normalcy, we enjoyed a toodle around the pond. As usual winter mice invaded camp shredding paper to beat idleness. Once things are cleaned up the Keene Compound will be ready for a season of swimming, boating and fishing. Our not so secret secluded beach on the pond just might tease us to don our bath suits a tad too early; that is once the black flies have vacated Maine!