Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone

Heartfelt stories
Official Blog of Kristy Gherlone
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    • One Last Moon Rise

      Posted at 1:50 pm by writergherlone, on October 11, 2017

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      *My posts have been less frequent as I have been traveling and working on submissions. This is a busy time of year and I’m having a difficult time managing my time. A lot of my short stories are tied up in the submission process. But, on a side note, another short story of mine has been accepted by Edify Fiction. “The Forest Fire”, will appear on December 29. I’m working hard and hope to be more attentive in the future. 

       

      One Last Moon Rise

      by Kristy Gherlone

      When I started dating my husband back in 2013, he told me that his parent’s owned a lake house in Schroon Lake, New York. It didn’t mean much to me, at the time. I had no idea of where Schroon Lake was or how much time we would even spend there. I was still recovering from the loss of my own childhood cottage in Maine, we both had kids about to graduate, and life was busy.

      However, he wanted me to go and see it, so during the summer, not too long after we’d starting dating, he brought me there. Now, if you you recall a past story of mine, “Road Tripping”, you will remember me talking about my yearly trips to visit my grandparents in Upstate New York. Imagine my surprise when on our three and a half drive up to Schroon Lake, I started to see and recognize some of the places I visited on those trips as a kid. Fort Ticonderoga, Lake Champlain…All those old familiar names and destinations zipping by as we drove along, bringing up a whirl-wind of memories. Fort Ticonderoga was one of my favorites. I still recall the museum there; the blood stained table, where the Native Americans had slaughtered a family of settlers. Gruesome, I know, but it stuck with me, and I’d always wanted to go back and see all of those things again. And now I could. Fort Ticonderoga was only about a twenty minute drive from the Lake House.

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      That first summer, we went up to the Lake House as much as we could. I was hooked. The nine mile lake was gorgeous, sitting right below the Adirondack Mountains.  The loons called all day and night, a sound so familiar to me, if I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was home in Maine. My husband’s parents had a boat and a wave runner. Both were fantastic for exploring the lake. The houses dotting the shore ranged from multi-million dollar estates to one room cottages. Schroon Lake was a hub for outdoor recreation and the town, small and quaint, was something out of a magazine, with it’s old-fashioned theater, town square, and Adirondack shops. We fished in the morning and evening. Dined out, barbecued, shopped, and on the Fourth of July, my husband’s father put on a fireworks show worthy of a New York City celebration. Family and friends gathered there. We had our own company up, when his parents were in Florida and sometimes even when they were not. The main house had three bed rooms, and there was a private apartment, with an additional two bedrooms. Board games, drinking, fishing, and boating, brought us many hours good times and laughter. We even visited the Natural Stone Bridge, just down the road.

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      We even went up in the winter to watch the ice-fishing, and to sit by the fire and just relax and read.

      The camp itself, sat high above the water. Two long stair cases led you to the shore. It was an old-fashioned place, appearing as though it was decorated in the 1950’s, but it had charm!

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      The views out front were incredible. All mountain and sky, with occasional treats such as these:

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      It was a retreat. A place to escape to. Not too far away, but just far enough that we felt as though we were a million miles away from our responsibilities. I had come to think that it would be a place that would always be there, but life happens, and as it turns out, my husband’s mother became gravely ill in Florida over the winter. We didn’t think she’d survive. We made the trip to Florida to care for her, and she told us of their decision to sell the house at Schroon Lake. We understood. The up-keep on a place like that could be daunting. The stairs alone, to the lake, were steep and unsettling for even a youngster. She couldn’t do it anymore.

      We thought we’d have some time, but as it turned out, the place sold in less than a month. This last trip, in October, would be our last forever. My husband, not prone to nostalgia, took it in stride. His family exchanged houses quite often when he was growing up. He was used to it, but I sensed a sadness in him that made me tear up, when gazes out at our last moon rise over the lake.IMG_0425

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      People, places, things; they all come into our lives and then they are gone. Sometimes too quickly. We do plan to go back, maybe at a rental, but it won’t be the same. It never is. We have plans to buy our own cottage, but it will be a few years. I will miss that place, though it wasn’t with me very long. I hate goodbyes and I’m not good with change. My heart hurts a little today for myself and for my husband, who had many more memories there than I. Goodbye, Schroon Lake. Thanks for the good times! Until we meet again.

      Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments | Tagged adirondacks, camp, cottages, family, lakelife, memories, nostalgia, schroon lake, travel
    • Sunfish Type of Gal

      Posted at 1:16 pm by writergherlone, on August 26, 2017

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      Sunfish Type Of Gal

      by Kristy Gherlone

      Living in the woods, like I did for many years, I found myself a frequent observer of nature. There was really no way to avoid it because once I stepped outside our brown, boxy camp, I was as much a part of my surroundings as they were of me. The sights and smells left imprints on my psyche and I learned lessons that will stay with me forever.

      Our lake and the surrounding forest held many fascinations. There were giant snapping turtles lurking around in the cove. Fish and baby duck stealing monsters that would poke their muddy green heads out of the water and skulk around brooding. I swore they were stalking me. Just waiting for me to dip a toe in so they could bite it off.

      There were several mating pairs of loons. The calls they made through the night could be both a comfort and a fright. Their cries lulled me to sleep as I lay on the swinging bed my dad made for me in the cozy loft. However, if I was awoken in the middle of the night, they sounded like ghosts! Eerie wails of long dead woodsmen that would haunt my dreams if I was able to get back to sleep.

      When I looked through the binoculars from the screened front porch, which I often did, I could spy bull moose on the far shore. Their giant antlered heads would be all the way underwater chomping on aquatic plants. Just when I thought they’d surely die of suffocation, they’d emerge.  Lily pads dangled like Christmas ornaments from their velvety racks.

      Often, I’d take to the forest. I’d wander off, far enough away from the camp that I couldn’t see it, but not far enough so that I couldn’t still smell the wood smoke puffing from the chimney. Just past the pines, through the birches and over the rows of enormous rocks left behind by glaciers, there was a clearing that held a bog. In mid-summer, it was lush and full of green plant life. Yellow lily flowers opened on the surface during the day and clammed shut at night. There were frogs in there, but they were hard to catch. The water was deep and the bottom was too squishy. I once got my shoe stuck in the muck and I never did find it. It’s probably still there to this day.

      If ever I got too bored, I’d head back down to the lake. I’d lay on my belly, draped over the faded and warped pine dock, peek into the shallow water, and look for sunfish nests. They were easy to spot. They’d be the only clean areas dotting the pulpy, dark bottom.
      The female fish crafted large, round circles of sand that looked like the sunshine had come out on a rainy day down there. They were interesting, and I learned a thing or two in all those years of watching.

      Sunfish girls were jealous and possessive. They didn’t like outsiders, and everything and everybody that wasn’t like them was a threat that should be run off quickly. They had an inherent need to protect what they felt was theirs. They’d socialize with their own kind only. The yellow perch, all tiger striped and sleek, would sneak in and try to play with them, but the sunfish wouldn’t have it. They’d chase them off, pecking at them viciously and swishing their tails to shoo them away. I felt bad for the perch as they swam away looking very dejected.

      The sunfish were industrious, spending hours cleaning their own houses. Picking up and spitting out what didn’t belong. I’d test them by dropping tiny stones in the middle of their order. They’d pick them up and move them out immediately. In my often, curious youth, tragedy would occur on occasion. Larger stones would slip from my fingers and go splashing down into their lairs. In no time at all, other sun fish would be called in to help. Everyone would work together to restore what was lost, if it could be (sorry!) As soon as it was done though, everyone would be booted out again.  It seemed they mostly only wanted company when it was to their benefit.

      Sunfish were pretty. Purple finned and red bellied beauties. They had nothing to be jealous about, but it seemed they couldn’t help it. Sometimes they would school up and swim together. They appeared cordial enough to each other, but God forbid if one tried to take something another wanted!

      I’ve known some girls like sunfish in my lifetime. I’m sure you have too. I’ve been on the receiving end of the shoo away from time to time, and it hurt, but I always tried to apply my nature observations for comfort. People really aren’t so different, after all.

      I learned, by watching the fish as much as I did, that they were too self- centered to give you a second thought just as soon as you were out of sight (or threat zone). Their thoughts always turned back to themselves and their needs. I like that. It means less gossip!

      I learned that they often end up alone, living a sad and lonely life, while the others are out having a blast.

      While few other fish are as pretty, looks don’t mean anything if you aren’t fun to be around. There are definitely cooler fish in the lake to hang with!

       

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged camp, familyfriendly, fish, nature, shortstory, sunfish
    • The Best Kind of Company

      Posted at 2:25 pm by writergherlone, on June 17, 2017

       

       

      IMG_9552*Some of the stories shared on this page will probably never be seen in the literary magazines.  However, I feel that they have some value and I’m glad to share them with you. “The Long Dirt Road” is the beginning of a series that appeared on my Facebook last year. These stories are about growing up in the Maine woods in a cabin at the lake without electricity or running water in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Writing them brought me back to that time and I was able to re-capture some of the thrills and the challenges faced.  I hope you find some thrills in reading them. 

      The Best Kind of Company

      Summer Series

      For Andrea. My very best friend

       

      “Can I have a friend up?”
      It was a question I asked often over the course of a summer when I was a kid growing up at camp.

      I learned never to ask that particular question when my mother would accidentally pound her thumb with a hammer instead of hitting the nail, or when the polyurethane on the furniture she’d painted hadn’t set right, or when the dog had run off to the neighbors…again!

      When I did manage to get the timing right however, her answer was most often, “We’ll see.”
      Now, ‘we’ll see’ can end up meaning a couple of things: yes, or absolutely not, depending on the variables, with the most important variable being who the friend actually was.
      If it was my best friend, then ‘we’ll see’ usually turned into a ‘yes.’

      Wednesday’s were town days for us. Every week we’d have go in and replenish our supplies, wash clothes, and run errands. Exchanges of people and goods could only be done on that day, and I was fidgety and restless all week just waiting for Wednesday to roll around so we could collect Andrea.

      Early in the morning my mother would start loading up our truck for town. “For heaven sake, don’t forget your laundry!” she’d call out.

      My sister and I would shove and trip each other as we bolted up the spiral staircase to our room in the loft. Grimacing, we’d paw through our piles of clothes, hoping to find anything that could wait until next time. Somehow it always looked like my stuff had been the dragged through a bed of pine needles and worm dirt as I sat stuffing my half damp clothes into black plastic bags.

      Windows needed to be closed and pets had to be rounded up and shut in before we could leave.
      My sister would skid ahead of me on the canvas driveway, trying to get to the truck first. I had to hold my tongue and try not to fight with her for the window seat or anything else. A yes could turn quickly into a no if there were any shenanigans on the way back down the long dirt road to home.

      Our town house always smelled musty and strange after being shut up for so long. I stumbled in with my arms full of bags and dumped them on the orangey brown linoleum and bolted back out again.

      Andrea lived in the blue house right across the street, and I raced over without even checking for cars. Oh, the suffering if she wasn’t home! A whole week down the tubes until we came back the next time! If she was home, however, and got permission, my life was made!
      We’d sit on the fluffy pink carpet in her room and talk about all the things we were going to do, while she packed.
      “Should I bring my Barbies?” she’d ask, whipping the hair back and forth on the blonde -haired beauty in question.

      “Hey! Yeah! We can bring the Barbie camper too, and set it up by the lake!”

      Fully packed and smiling like fools, we’d drag her duffle bag and pillows back across the street.

      “Get in,” my mother, looking frazzled and worn out, would utter as she pointed into the truck. “We need to do some shopping.”

      Andrea and I would exchange wicked grins. Cookies and candy! Snack cakes and chips! We were going to need a lot of junk food to keep us going for a week!

      My mother would pull into the parking lot of the Shop N Save. We’d hop out and run in ahead.
      Brach’s candies were first in the aisle, and we’d choose about 5 pounds of caramels and chocolate chews before my mother would come and empty most of it back out. “This stuff isn’t cheap, you know. Go find something else.”
      Little Debbie’s and Andes candies were good alternatives, and several boxes of each were tossed into the cart alongside of the toilet paper and soap.

      Finally, in the stifling heat of the mid- afternoon sun, it would be time to head out of town.
      Truck full of food and clean shorts, we’d climb in, singing and giggling the whole way out of town, annoying my sister immensely.

      Our heads hit the gold metal ceiling of the Custom Deluxe as we bounced around every time my mother hit a pot hole. “Are you kids buckled?” She’d ask.
      I’d fish around and pull out the buckle we had. I’d stretch it wide over the two of us and click it into place.

      It took forever to get to camp! When we did, we’d tumble over each other getting out, and run up the rickety pine dock that led to the big gray rock that sat high above the water.
      The change in temperature and the cool breeze coming off the lake was refreshing.

      “Wanna fish?” I’d ask, thrusting a pole in her direction hopefully.

      “If you put the worm on and take off the fish,” she’d always answer, wrinkling her nose.

      “You kids get in here and help put this stuff away!” my mother would holler from the kitchen window.

      Part II

      “Where should I put my stuff?” Andrea had asked the first year she’d been allowed to spend a whole week with me at camp.

      She clutched the handle of her duffle and stepped into our boxy, brown camp.
      I peered at my sister with begging eyes. She and I shared the loft in the upstairs in our cabin. It was a spacious loft, but there were only two small beds. They hung by chains from the rafters. Andrea loved hearing about our swinging beds and was dying to try them out.

      “No way! Not my bed. You guys can just sleep somewhere else,” my sister wailed, shaking her head vehemently. “Mom! Tell them they have to sleep somewhere else! I won’t be able to sleep if they’re up all night talking!” she cried.

      “You guys work it out,” my mother gave in answer, trying to be diplomatic in the eyes of “company.”

      “Hmm. What should we do?” I ruminated, looking around for another spot we could use.

      Our camp was open and airy. There were no actual bedrooms to speak of. My mother slept on the pull out couch in the living room, while my dad occupied the back room. Neither of them would appreciate the giggling or the crinkling of candy papers that was sure to go on half the night. The only other place would be the screened in porch…

      “Nope. The paint’s still wet on the floor out there,” my mother said. “Besides, it’s gonna be too chilly tonight. You’ll catch pneumonia.”

      “What should we do?” Andrea whispered meekly. She gave my sister a pitiful stare.

      “Fine,” my sister huffed, rolling her eyes. “You can sleep in the loft. But not in my bed and only if you share some of your candy.” She started up the stairs with her clean laundry, smug in her generosity. “And you guys better not wake me up early!”

      So it was settled. I rolled the foldaway mattress out onto the red, slated floor. I would sleep there and Andrea would have her chance at the swinging bed. She loved it! The chains that hung from the ceiling and attached to the bed creaked and squeaked as she rocked back and forth smiling.

      We were young that first summer. We didn’t venture very far from the main camp, but we didn’t need to. We set up the Barbie camper down on the shore, just like we planned. There, the breeze was cool and kept the black flies away. We spent hours in make believe. Our Barbies never had such a summer!

      We caught sunfish and made rocky cages to trap them in the shallows. They found ways to get out, so we built the walls up higher and stuffed pebbles in the cracks.

      We found tiny frogs and tossed them from the big gray rock. Gulping perch jumped after them, snatching them quickly from the surface, leaving giant rings in their wake. It probably wasn’t very nice, but it was entertaining!

      We talked and talked, skipping up and down the road each day. We had the kind of conversations that would only make sense to the two of us.
      “Would you still hang around with me if I walked like this?” I asked, bowing out my legs and shuffling along all catawampus.

      “Probably,” she answered, unconvincingly. “Would you still hang out with me if I looked like this?” She used her finger to push up her nose to resemble a pig.

      “Maybe,” I answered, trying not to laugh. “But I don’t know.”

      We snapped leafy branches from the trees to swat the deer flies away as we walked along.

      The loneliness I felt when she had to go back home at the end of the week was painful. Though we always begged for more time, it was usually rejected.

      “Geesh! One week is enough!” my mother declared. “There will be other times.”

      And there were. Every year, for a week or so, Andrea traded her house in town with electricity and plumbing for the gas lights and the outhouse we had at camp. She never complained. Well maybe about the outhouse…

      Our conversations shifted over the years from Barbies to boys. Our interests changed. We spent less time at the camp and more time walking the road and exploring.

      Our sleeping arrangements changed too. We required more privacy. We could never talk about all the things we wanted to with nosey ears listening. A couple of times we set up a tent in the yard, but it wasn’t much good in the rain, even with the waterproofing. Plus, there might have been bears! A thin layer of tent material was no match for the towering bears we imagined!

      “Why don’t you jokers sleep in the barn?” my dad suggested one year. His voice was gruff, but kind. “It’s not half bad now that it’s painted on the inside. You guys could fix it up.”

      Years before, my dad had bought me a horse for Christmas. When summer came along and he bought the camp, we couldn’t leave the horse in town. We spent all one summer building a barn together up the hill past camp. The horse didn’t last long, but the barn still stood. It was sturdy and private.

      “Yeah! We could make it into a guest house!”

      We hauled in posters and quilts, snacks and lanterns. We spent an entire day fixing it up and both of us had to admit how nice it was. By the light of the day it was pretty neat. After dark, however, the squeaking started. Low chirps at first that turned in to vicious squeals. We turned on the flashlight and pointed the beam in the direction of the noise.

      Bats! We couldn’t get out of there fast enough!

      “What in jeeslum is going on?” my dad bellowed, sticking his head out the door, awakened by our screams.
      “Bats! The barn is full of bats!” we cried, running and tripping over roots as we fled the barn with blankets covering our heads.

      “Oh heck! They don’t eat much! Pipe down and get to sleep!” He shook his head and slammed the door.

      By that time, I had a license and a car and we ended up sleeping in it for the rest of the night. It was uncomfortable and stifling, but safe.

      We evicted the bats over time and plugged the holes in the barn so they couldn’t get back in.
      While we never fully recovered from the trauma of that night, and never stopped checking for bats, we did spend many nights there. My favorite nights were when the air would turn cool and the wind would kick up, causing whitecaps on the silvery moonlit lake.
      We’d sneak out, running in our bare feet down the road to the neighbors’ beach. If no one was home, we’d jump off the wharf there wearing nothing but grins.
      The water was warmer than the air and we would stay in a long time, just laughing and talking well into the night.

      It’s been twenty- eight years since the last sleepover I had at camp with Andrea.
      We both grew up and had kids of our own. We’re busy, she and I, but we still make time to talk.

      I believe the experiences we shared and the memories we made at camp all those years ago cemented us together for a lifetime. She will always be a part of me.

      I pluck snippets of those times from my mind when I need a lift, and they always make me smile.

      Andrea wasn’t just the best kind of company, she was and always will be my best friend.

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged 1970, 1980, cabins, camp, childhood, maine, shortstory
    • The Colony

      Posted at 10:51 am by writergherlone, on June 16, 2017

       

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      *Some of the stories shared on this page will probably never be seen in the literary magazines. However, I feel that they have some value and I’m glad to share them with you. “The Long Dirt Road” is the beginning of a series that appeared on my Facebook last year. These stories are about growing up in the Maine woods in a cabin at the lake without electricity or running water in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Writing them brought me back to that time and I was able to re-capture some of the thrills and the challenges faced. I hope you find some thrills in reading them. 

       

      The Colony

      by Kristy Gherlone

      Summer Series

      Through the black and white birches, over the maze of pitchy pine roots, and just past the dead pools of standing lake water, there is a place where my childhood lingers. When I close my eyes, I imagine that I’m still there, playing amidst a sea of boulders.

       

      Ancient glacial fingers lost their grip on gigantic rocks as big as trucks, long ago, dropping them in a scatter throughout that hidden stretch of land.

      Amber beds of pine needles and white moss covered them in blankets of fragrant carpets. Crooked cedar jutted out from the tops, like weary soldiers. Their thick roots wound around in spindles, like spiral stairways waiting to be climbed. It was a magical place where ferns, tea berries, and imaginations bloomed.

       

      When my dad bought our cottage in the woods in the late 1970’s, the adjacent property was uninhabited.  Rows of pines and maples stood guard at the entrance to that the deeper, dark forest that surrounded our cove for miles and miles. It was deserted and desolate as I stood on the edge peering in with fearful eyes. I was sure that bears and vicious creatures lurked behind every corner. It took a year or so of brave, but short, excursions with my sister and the boys next door before we finally ventured all the way in.

       

      To us, when we came upon those hulking gray rocks, they looked like houses. Big, empty structures waiting for inhabitants. It was nature’s playground!

       

      Railroad spikes and blocks of old wood were hammered together and became pretend televisions. Pieces of discarded lumber turned into chairs and tables. Days were spent crafting furniture out of whatever we could scavenge.

       

      I became Roxanne Howl. I was rich with my snow-white mossy carpet and my fine home furnishings. My rock house was the last in the row, and I was sure it was the best. I made my fortune selling Brach’s candies to the others from my store nearby. Instant oatmeal packages became the paper bags used to carry away the purchases. Our currency was pennies and I used mine to purchase Kool Aid from the colony bar keep.

       

      Dad came out to inspect our work. “You’ve got yourselves quite a colony here,” he said, chuckling.

       

      None of us knew what that meant at the time, but we thought it was a pretty good name for our club. We made a sign and posted it at the entrance. ‘The Colony’.

       

      We built a log raft to transport us to and from the main camp, but it sunk on the first trial, so we blazed trails instead. Our chattering voices echoed across the lake as we traveled to and from our hideaway each day.

       

      We led extravagant lives in those woods, among those rocks. We escaped to our made-up world as often as we could.

       

      Back in the days before video games and cell phones, imagination was all we had. It was a valuable tool, taken for granted, but never forgotten.

       

      Whenever I see a boulder, my mind transports me to that time and place, and so I believe my spirit remains like a shadow among the forests of my youth.

       

       

       

      Posted in shortstory, Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged 1970, camp, childhood, maine, nature, show
    • Voices From Near and Far Away

      Posted at 2:51 pm by writergherlone, on June 14, 2017

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      *Some of the stories shared on this page will probably never be seen in the literary magazines.  However, I feel that they have some value and I’m glad to share them with you. “The Long Dirt Road” is the beginning of a series that appeared on my Facebook last year. These stories are about growing up in the Maine woods in a cabin at the lake without electricity or running water in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Writing them brought me back to that time and I was able to re-capture some of the thrills and the challenges faced.  I hope you find some thrills in reading them. 

       

       

      Voices From Near and Far Away

      Summer Story Series Part II

      by Kristy Gherlone

       

      Living in the woods, like I did when I was growing up, I had to find ways to entertain myself.

      Most times, it wasn’t any trouble at all. Who could be bored with a cove full of fish? Who couldn’t find anything to do with a forest full of wonders and a bog full of frogs? Who could sit still when there were miles of dirt road to explore on my bike? Those were day things, though, and evening would stroll on in, nudging me with telltale signs, long before I was ready.

      The breeze that skimmed across the water during the day, creating foamy whitecaps that crashed over the rocks, would suddenly halt, as if it had been scolded and chased off.

      Sky turned orange blaze would begin to slip below the mountain as mist crept in and around the pines. The lake became eerie glass that sent smoky wisps up into the darkening sky as the warm water did battle with the cool air. I tried not to imagine what things lurked under the surface there late at night, and what spirits might be cast out from their watery graves. Ghosts, slippery eels, and stinging catfish chased me often in my dreams.

      Giant bull frogs would begin to ga-gunk. Back and forth they’d argue, provoking others into debate, drowning out the sounds of loons and crickets.

      Just when it became hard to see my way through the maze of pathways between our camp and the neighbors, my mother would stand on the screened in porch and ring the old school bell, calling me home. I’d snatch a few fireflies to stuff in a jar later, and start running. My heart would nearly pound out of my chest as I ducked under the flutter of bat wings as they came out of their roosts for the night. They would just be heading out as I was heading in, and we didn’t much care for each other.

      The flickering glow and popping sound of the gas lights would greet me as I bolted in, letting the door slam behind me.

      “Wash your hands,” my mother would say.

      Rolling my eyes, I’d go over to the cast iron pump in the kitchen. Throaty gurgles and high pitched squeaks filled the room as I drew the water up from the lake. Satisfied when I was clean enough, I’d start bargaining; “If you’ll play monopoly with me tonight, I’ll go swimming with you tomorrow,” I’d say to my sister.

      “I’m reading,” she’d tell me.

      I’d slump onto the couch, “I’m bored.”

      “Why don’t you get on the radio and see who’s out there,” my mother would suggest.

      We didn’t have electricity, but my dad was a crafty man. Early on in our camp life, he’d set up a row of solar panels on the roof. They charged a battery that ran our CB, a few lights, and our small black and white television. The CB was our only means of communication with the outside world. It not only kept my parents in touch as my dad drove to and from work each day, but it kept us in contact with the others that lived on the many lakes in our area. It was a place for swapping recipes, sharing gossip, and keeping the loneliness away.

      Suddenly brightening, I’d go and snap on the CB. Most times I’d find a conversation already in progress.

      ‘Oh yeah, carrots are popping up real nice. Yup, that trick you told me about the fish worked pretty good. Papa Grouch said he had a whole slew of rabbits sneak in and eat his last week. How’s things on your end of the lake? Over.’

      I’d sit there *rubbering, waiting for a turn to cut in, and finally, I’d get my chance.

      “Muffin here at the *foot. Anyone got their ears on?” I’d ask, trying to sound like a professional operator.

      “Hey, hey, it’s muffin! How you doing this evening? Tell your mother I said hello.” Someone would answer.

      “I’m good,” I’d say. “I will.”

      “Tell her that loon came back again last evening.”

      And so on, and so forth, until my mother would take over. It was a conversation meant for her, after all!

      We made a quite a few friends this way. We’d invite them to our camp and we’d get invited to theirs. It was how I got my *handle; making muffins for our guests from the fresh berries I picked on the road. Naturally, I was dubbed ‘Muffin’.

      Later on, my dad added what’s called side band to the radio. It broadened our reach range dramatically and suddenly I’d be listening and talking to truckers on the highway and people from all over the United States! Voices carried in the air over great distances landed in my ears each night, from Southern drawls to French accents. I met so many people, and on a clear evening, once, I even got a man down in the Gulf of Mexico!

      How exciting it was to hear about places I’d never visited, and I’d sit there imaging what views they were looking at as they talked to me. I always bet that mine was better, but how I wish I could have jumped through that radio just to see for myself!

      Times were different back when I was growing up. Some people might have called us unfortunate for going without the modern conveniences of town, but I’m smart enough to know that I was the one who was fortunate.

      The lessons and skills I learned at camp all those summers long ago couldn’t be gained by watching television.
      Besides, who else can say they were a radio operator at ten years old?

       

      *Rubbering – an old-fashioned term for listening in on someone’s conversation. Typically used when there used to be party lines on the telephone.

      *Foot – the lake I grew up on was quite large. There was the main part or head of the lake, and our cottage was at what was called the “foot” or the end of the lake.

      *Handle- made-up names, used for talking on the CB. Even back in those times it was smarter not to give your real name to strangers!

      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged 1970, camp, cbradio, childhood, maine
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