Maine is an huge, expansive state. On certain stretches of road one could drive hours and see nothing but trees, grassland, and coast; the view only broken on occassion my small hamlets of civilization huddled their own little clearings in the vast wilderness. In one such clearing, a small stretch of land bridge occupied by a town called Brooksville, is a small camp ground called Winniaugwamauk.
It's a remote place, as I have previously suggested, the road leading to the camp ground itself is tucked away from the main drag amongst a growth of ancient evergreens, you'd almost miss it driving along at a fast clip like most motorists unless you were actually looking keeping an eye on the roads for it. From the hidden turn the road is paved, if not well kept. Frost heaves and poorly patched potholes, a thin strip of dirt laced with weeds seperates the battered tar from the rusted pine needle blanket of the forest that closses in from both sides. Of course this only lasts for a few moments then the tree line breaks away, along with the paved portion of road, and opens up into a large field. Freshly cut grass, more green than anything I've seen back home, blankets the curve of a small hill that dips down towards the brown sand covered beach. Perched a top the small rise and over looking the mirror like surface of 'Lake Winni' is a solid, rectangular building. Called 'the tapernackle' it's a deceptively simple building; white washed siding and a black tiled roof conceal the simple beuty of the varnished wooden stage and panneling inside. I can remember numerous skits and shorts I and my cabin mates had performed there, both funny and serious, as well as the services done by my old pastor Mark. All of them, each one, is a memory I hold dear.
Farther down the dirt road is the dinning hall, it's sides covered in darkened cedar shakes and surounded by a deck painted in the same white wash as the tabernackle. Inside the walls are splashed light blue and heavy wooden tables are set in neat rows down the center of the room, eight to a side. Etched in each are names, phrases, the declaration of a teen age crush...all footprints of campers past and present. Once, during a particularly dull meal, I had started to drum on the table; a typical Seminol chant beat that spread throughout the hall. It was infectious and one of my most fond memories.
The dirt road bends around the perimiter of the dinning hall and always seems to have a perminant layer of dust hanging in the air from all the traffic back and forth. It mianders down a small slope that runs between two neat rows of small, brown sided buildings; each with a small plaque hanging from beside the white painted screen door and sporting a numeral 1 through 13. The interior of these little buildings are divided into two rooms and lined with bunk beds. The wooden walls are smooth, more from age and touch than application of sand paper, and sport a legion of names, dates, and phrases left here by generations of occupants. Many a night I remember looking at the many scetched or carved words, most of them names and dates going back to the late seventies.
My favorite place though is just left of the dirt road that runs between the buildings. An old pine resides there, twisting over so that it's branches provide shade to the battered old picknick table benieth. The old surface has been painted, stripped then repainted a rusty sort of red and is speckled with droplets of sap; and for many years has provided both a rest and meeting place for many of my fellow campers, including myself. It was here surrounded by friends and loved ones, our voices lifted in conversation or laughter, that I felt secure, unjudged.
Safe.
It will probably be a relief to hear that your place description is exactly that, not a narrative, or a five-graf essay, or a take out menu, or a business plan, or anything else.
ReplyDeleteSome pieces, like this, seem bathed in quiet emotion, calmness, light, tranquillity. The writing is very sure of itself, as well it might be.