Memories

I had a dream about our summer home and the last time I visited there with my cousins and friends so I wrote it down when I woke up. Enjoy!

I woke up in a quiet little room just left of the front door. The first thing I noticed was that the bedspread was blue, a soft blue that perfectly fit this tiny New England cottage.

 

The shelf to my right held the three worn library books I'd gotten in town the day before. The same books I get every year- the selection never seems to change much. But this morning the sea called deeper in my heart than Jo March or fantasy so I tugged on the lamp cord and stretched.

 

Wooden boards creaked under foot as I gathered clothes out of my suitcase. Sometimes I would bother unpacking for the two week stay, but not this trip. I crossed the wide slats to the wooden door and pushed it into the frame firmly, lifting up on the old-fashioned latch as I did so and quietly slipped out of the Blue Room and into the hallway.

 

The Old Forge where we stay every year is far from sound proof. One creaky misstep and my peaceful morning would be interrupted by an irate mother, so I flipped on the bathroom light outside the door and closed it as softly as I could. The light fixture inside sputtered for a whole minute before reluctantly coming to life with a drone like mosquitoes.

 

The toilet paper roll is the loudest squeak in the house every morning, so I lifted up on that too, trying to keep from jarring the rusty metal. And then finally, with teeth brushed under a mere drizzle of water and my summer outfit donned (jean shorts pulled over a swimming one-piece) I trekked outside in flip-flops to run through the dewy meadow.

 

I am a night-owl in the normal course of things- 9:00am to work (or school, in those days) is hellish torture, but vacation in Maine is different. I am different there, almost as though someone else lives the life outside of summer, and it is only in Maine that my true self airs. With no television, no street lamps and no privacy on the tiny island, bedtime comes around 9:30 and it was up at dawn for me, running through misty grasses.

 

My cousins, like my parents, were damned if they'd wake before the sun is high overhead, but the sea rises at the moon's command, and true to my zodiac so did I.

 

To touch the ocean before noon sunshine warms it is to court death by ice cube-- authorities say hypothermia sets in under 20 minutes at high noon in July, yet my cousins and I swam for hours each day. So I waited silently, a notebook in hand, for crabs or fishermen or schooners to move my pen in its vibrant verbal dance. Poetry slipped between my fingers to mingle with the lines on the page and I danced the song of the rocky beach until the sun finally rose.

 

Finally my body could no longer contain the wild call, so I slipped my shoes off to dance barefoot and bare legged over the steep jumble of boulders, like a female Goliath rock-hopping on stony mountains. There was an innocence to it, not serious like a professional rock climber, nor sensuous like a strip for the sea, but open-hearted and I reveled in it.

 

As the sun rose and burned away the soft dew, thoughts of ice cream and sailing filled my mind and I trotted back up the muddy slope with it's moss and tumbling railing, slowly trekked up the hill to the black road, crossed and wound my way up the gravel and grass drive to the only home I've ever carried in my heart. Now finally, the sounds of laughter and LOR role-playing echoed down from the second floor of the farm house (not the cottage where I stayed) and I opened the screen door to let myself in. The elegant dining room was perfectly untouched, as always, by the merrymaking of the five teenagers within, but the stairwell was not so lucky, where several voluptuous towels hung indignantly from the top floor. Though I was quite the same age and just as messy, I couldn't help laughing at their rowdiness and Great-Uncle Norman's dismay.

 

Left is the girl's room still silent, but to the right is the room where the younger two boys sleep, and I could hear again the sounds of Noah and Gabe having it out with Orcs and Rohirimm on the window sill above the dresser. The slanted roof up here made for beautifully odd-shaped rooms, and theirs is no different. Two twin beds and a tiny children's' rocker they've been forbidden to sit on furnish the room, and the same blue-gray paint as downstairs coats the wooden floor, giving it a slippery feel under untredded flip-flops.

 

I watched the game for a moment, laughing and sighing as they did over the loss of troops and arguing good-naturedly over rules, but my real interest is the older boy, Benj, who rooms below in the maid's wing and has come up to play. My favorite cousin of all, he'd promised me a sail on his new boat and that day might well be the day.

 

We talked philosophy, Benj and I that summer-- some poetry, a few books, and many, many blueberries to mouth or old tin pot, but mainly philosophy. Not Socrates or even Hubbard, but the sort of earth-bound, teenage philosophy that only observant children ever learn- how life can turn so wonderful a thousand miles from home, or what the future might bring. There was no sense of authority or snobbery between us, despite a two year gap, only hot sunlight, cold brine and good berry-picking spots.

 

Without the privileges of automated dishwashers, television, or even radio, we yet had the very best of times, seven teenagers, mostly related, all in love with life, sea and blueberries. Aided as we were by good company, fresh pies, simple informal meals, bonfires, beaches and seafood, we were the happiest children imaginable. The friends were many and the arguments few, and with so much to occupy and divert us, it is no wonder we stayed out of trouble; innocently playful despite our disparate years.

 

I miss that. The buildings were old-fashioned, smelling of wood, dust and pipe tobacco, the furnishings elegant and antique. The dishes were cracked and strange, with aluminum pots, rattling handles and old candle lamps, but the air was fresh and the meadows were calling. I hear them with a sigh even now, for I know deeply what I suspected then- The Sabine Farm will never be the same again.

Reviews

[Sarah Nicole Nadler]

Gawd I miss those days!

A very powerful story. I think everyone at one time will reminisce about the happy times and I think this story really hits on that emotion. This are not the same once you grow up no matter how hard you try to return to those times. Great story!