Tag: childhood

• Daddy’s Coat

  Posted at 4:19 pm by writergherlone, on August 19, 2017

  

   

  Daddy’s Coat

  by Kristy Gherlone

   

  “Mom, you gave me an extra again,” Katie said as she placed the last setting at the table, only to realize she still had a plate in her hand.
  She glanced briefly, but painfully, towards her dad’s chair. Her heart squeezed at the sight. His olive colored winter coat, puffy with downy feathers still hung over the back as if at any moment he’d be coming in to put it on.
  “Just habit, I guess. I’m sorry. Bring it here,” her mom said.
  Katie, lost in a memory, didn’t hear her.
  **
  “What do you want for Christmas daddy?” Katie, at fifteen, had asked her dad that year. She’d taken a part time job a few weeks before, and was proud that she’d finally be able to purchase the gifts for Christmas all on her own.
  She didn’t know, at the time, how tight her parents’ budget was, and what a relief it was for them. She couldn’t know. Her dad never deprived her of anything and never let on how much he went without sometimes.
  “Oh, I don’t know. How about a tin of those peach blossoms I like?”
  “But daddy, I meant a real gift. I always get you candy. I want to get you something you really want.”
  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t want you spending your money on me. Save it up! Get yourself something special,” he’d said, ruffling her hair as he headed off for work.
  She’d had to ask her mom later what he wanted.
  “Well, you know… there’s this coat he’s been wanting. He saw it in the Sears and Roebucks. Said it looked real warm. Supposed to be filled with goose feathers or some foolishness, but don’t worry about it. His coat’ll do another year. That one’s too expensive, in my opinion. Ninety-nine dollars!” Her mother clucked and shook her head.
  Katie knew the coat he had been wearing was dangerously worn out. Many years of harsh Maine winters and several dozen washings had left it thin and faded, but he never complained no matter how cold it got. He used to say, ‘I’m tough I is I am I are, and when I’m mad I spits tar.’ It used to make Katie giggle when she was little, and her eyes roll when she got older.
  He probably could have bought a new coat the year before with the money he had in savings, but Katie had needed braces.
  “Ninety-nine dollars?” Katie asked nervously. She had one hundred and fifty saved up. Ninety-nine was a lot of money… Nearly all of her Christmas budget.
  “Yeah. That’s why I said don’t worry about it. He’ll manage.”

  Her mom had married him when Katie was just eight years old, so he wasn’t her real dad then. He’d only become he real dad by the way he treated her, and by the way her heart felt about him. He became as real as anyone else’s. They’d been so poor before. Never enough food, or anything else for that matter.  He’d taken them in, and treated her like she was his very own daughter. That first Christmas he’d bought her every single thing she’d scribbled down on her list. She knew he wanted her to know how loved she was and that she’d never have to worry again.
  Katie went off in search of the catalogue and looked it up. It was nice. It was rated to forty-five below. He could use that, working outside like he did a lot of the time. He was getting old. His hair, gone gray years before, had thinned to unmanageable wisps, and his hands, all gnarly from arthritis, could barely hold a wrench anymore. She knew the cold bothered him, though he’d never admit it.
  Katie studied the picture again.
  Ninety-nine dollars! She sucked in her breath. It was a lot of money. There were so many things she could buy with that!

  Without any more hesitation, Katie called the number on the catalogue.
  Christmas morning, she watched as he opened the big brown box. She’d never seen him cry before, but as he unwrapped the tissue paper and pulled the coat out of the box, his eyes were misty. He choked up as he reached over to hug and thank her.
  He wore that coat every winter day until the last one, and every time he put it on, he’d say the same thing, “Boy oh boy this is a nice coat. So sturdy and warm.”

  **
  “Katie! I said bring it here!” Her mom’s voice, tinged with annoyance, brought her back to the present.
  Katie snapped to and handed the plate back to her mother.
  She turned around and went over to her dad’s chair. She ran her hand over the soft fabric of the coat. She lifted it up and held it to her nose, breathing in deeply.
  It smelled of tobacco and mint. Of wood shavings and oil. There was a whiff of coffee and just a hint of cologne. Everything that was her dad was captured in that coat. There were a thousand memories wrapped up in there; of him pulling her on the sled, the year he taught her to drive a snow mobile, that fall he took her hunting, and of him chopping down countless Christmas trees. The threads that ran through the length of that coat, holding it together, were like the threads of their relationship. Sturdy. Just like her love for him would always be, even though he was gone.
  “I can put it away in the closet if it will make you feel any better,” her mom said.
  “No, don’t!” Katie said quickly. After all, she liked to pretend too.

  There would always be a place at the table, even if only in their memories

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childhood, family, familyfriendly, fiction, flashfiction, shortstory, stepdad

• Thief

  Posted at 12:50 pm by writergherlone, on July 30, 2017

  

  *This story originally appeared in Every Writer’s Resource. From there, it was seen and requested by the Mystery Tribune, and has been featured in their magazine for over a month now.

  When I first wrote “Thief”, I submitted it to a few magazines, and it was rejected each time. I was starting to lose hope. I looked at it again, and made some small changes and few edits. Sometimes, that’s all it needs!

  Don’t lose hope if you have written something and it is rejected. Keep working at it and remind yourself that even the “greats” have been rejected hundreds of times!

  Please be sure to watch for my next story “Ice Cream or Moxie”. It will publish in Short Fiction Break on August 11th.

   

  Thief

  By Kristy Gherlone

       I watch them together, though I’m supposed to be in my room. They’re sitting too close. Cigarette smoke trails in front of my eyes as I sit huddled in the corner.

  They talk to each other like they’re good friends, but I don’t know the woman with my father. She’s pretty and young, but there’s something ugly about her too.

  He faces her as he sits on the couch, strumming away on his guitar. The woman places her hand on his knee. Her thumb moves in lazy circles over the denim fabric of his pants before slipping in and out of a frayed hole to touch his bare skin.

  I can’t breathe. I cough. The woman glares at me, then mashes her lips together until they melt into a smirk. Her eyes speak to me. They say, ‘I’m taking him. He’s mine now. Just sit there and let it happen.’ She turns back to my father. His eyes tell her that I’m not important. She smiles. I hold my blanket over my nose and breathe in filtered smoke as I suck my thumb.

  My mother walks in. “Another guitar lesson?” She asks. Her voice is strange.

  The woman takes her hand off from my father’s knee and he stops playing.

  “Yes,” the woman answers. She picks her bag up off the floor. “I have to get back to work now. Same time tomorrow?” she asks my father, like she doesn’t need my mother’s permission. Like she’s going to be the boss now.

  He clears his throat, “yeah, tomorrow’s good.”

  “Bye,” she sings to me. She pats my head like I’m a dog before breezing out in a choke of perfume.

  My father puts his guitar down and gets up. He stretches and walks over to the fridge, where he reaches in for a beer.

  “I don’t want her back here,” my mother says. Her voice is shaky, as if she’s about to cry. She whips a dirty plate into the sink. It shatters. “I’m not stupid! I know what’s going on.”

  “Okay, so you caught me,” he shrugs and looks at the floor.

  My mother chokes, “that’s just great!” She snatches her purse off the counter, “you’re not leaving me with this mess.” She motions towards me and slams the door on her way out.

  My father picks up the phone. “I told her. Come and get me?”

  He’s going through the drawers in his room, throwing things into his suitcase when I hear someone pull up and honk. I go to the window. That woman is sitting in the driver’s seat of a car with no roof. Her hair swirls in the breeze, as if they are already driving away.

  I want to say something, but I don’t exist anymore.

  He runs out and kisses the woman on the lips.

  She waves to me as they pull away. My father looks straight ahead.

  End

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 6 Comments | Tagged adultery, childhood, divorce, flashfiction, loss, microfiction, parenting, shortstory

• Humiliation

  Posted at 1:40 pm by writergherlone, on June 23, 2017

  

   

  Humiliation

  by Kristy Gherlone

  A true, short story.

  When I was five and in kindergarten, I tied my shoe laces together and couldn’t get them undone.

  I remember it was fall, sometime near Halloween. I know that we were watching a movie and eating roasted pumpkin seeds. I was disappointed that we weren’t having popcorn, but I was surprised by the sweet, buttery saltiness.
  That particular day, we’d walked in a neat, quiet line across the hall to join the other kindergarten class. I can’t tell you what the movie was or who was sitting next to me, but I remember frantically trying to get my shoelaces undone before a teacher noticed what a lame brain I was. I asked the kid next to me for help, but she knew less than I did about the workings of shoelaces.
  When the movie finished and it was time to go back, I shuffled along with my feet close together until the other teacher (not my own dear teacher) stopped me at the door and asked why I did such a foolish thing. It was the first time I remember feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I remember that she wouldn’t help me. She said I’d have to figure it out on my own, and I can remember, in my panic, thinking that my shoes would stay like that forever.
  Would I have remembered that day if it hadn’t left a mark on my psyche? Probably not. As I think back, I have quite a few memories like that. Days that I would have otherwise forgotten if not for the feelings they gave me. I have a sense that if not for those seemingly small tragedies, my childhood days would be molded together in one big blur.
  It’s funny how the brain works. I do have plenty of pleasant memories, but it’s the ones like the shoelaces that come back the easiest.
  Why is it easier to remember the bad stuff? Psychologists would say it’s an innate defense mechanism to keep you from making the same mistakes again. While tying my shoelaces together wasn’t detrimental to my health, I never did it again, so well played, brain.
  As I look back on a lifetime of embarrassments, I realize that it’s not all bad. I remember kindergarten. I remember my sweet teacher Mrs. Hartung, and I remember how good pumpkin seeds taste.

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childhood, humiliation, kindergarten, nonfiction, school, shortstory, teacher

• Dear Old Golden Rule Days

  Posted at 10:36 pm by writergherlone, on June 20, 2017

  

  Dear Old Golden Rule Days

  Summer Series (Final story in the series)

  By Kristy Gherlone

   

   

  *If you would like to read the entire series, begin with The Long Dirt Road

  **some names have been changed to protect privacy

   

  My mother huffed a puff of air from the corner of her mouth as she fished a week’s worth of mail out our box in town. A few strands of overgrown hair scattered up and away from her eyes. “Thank God! The catalogs are in,” she sang with relief, as she sifted through the pile. She tossed two thick, glossy books onto the table, where they landed with a thud. She set the rest of the stack on the counter for my dad. “You guys can bring them up to camp and pick out your clothes for the year,” she stated with satisfaction.

  I felt like throwing up. My entire body filled with dread as I dared a glance. The Sears and JC Penny’s catalogs lay there, taunting me. Any excitement I felt about the prospect of new clothes was squashed by the reason I needed them… School!

  “Only two weeks left! I want your list no later than Friday,” she added, as she descended into the basement to finish the laundry before it was time to head back up to camp for our last weeks of summer.

  My lip curled in disappointment and disgust. Only two weeks of summer left! It couldn’t be over already! No more fishing, or swimming, or frog catching! We’d be closing camp for the season and moving back to town! That thought pained me in ways I can’t describe. My life was over!

  I sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs and shoved the catalogs away. I didn’t want them in my sight.

  “Mom, can I have Andrea up?” I asked, brightening a little with hope. I was grasping for anything that would take my mind off from the impending doom.

  “Absolutely not! We have a lot of stuff to do at camp to get it ready for winter, and we’re not coming back into town next week. I want you girls to clean up that wood and all those nails out at the colony. Then, I want you to go through those games on the porch and put the pieces back where they belong and then…”

  “Oh geez, that’s right! I gotta hurry up and get stuff done.” My dad breezed in and took the laundry basket from my mother. “I gotta get that wood chopped and stacked. I’m gonna need some help.” He gave my sister and I a meaningful look.

  Just shoot me…

  That week, most of my friends would be driving an hour to the mall in Bangor. They’d go in groups with their parents, shop in cool stores, eat lunch in neat restaurants, and maybe even go to the movies after, but the fact that they were having fun and I wouldn’t be, wasn’t what was bothered me.
  In our family, we always shopped by mail order. My mother hated driving and hated department stores even more. We’d learned to accept that long ago. I didn’t really mind because it meant I got to stay at camp longer.

  No, the problem was that my sister and one of the boys that lived next to us at camp had been telling me a thing or two about seventh grade all summer, and I didn’t like what I’d heard. I’d been getting more nervous about it as time wore on.

  “Who’d you get for home room?” my sister had asked that last day of sixth grade, when I’d come home with the packet from the office. She jumped up and down over my shoulder as I read, so she could see too.
  I flipped it over and held it to my chest. “None of your business, Miss Nosey,” I said.

  She ran over to the back door and stuck her head out. “Mom! Kristy won’t let me see who she got next year! Make her tell me!” she wailed. My mother was busy packing the truck, so my sister came back in and tried to snatch the notice away from me.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake. What’s the big deal?” my mother said, hustling back in for more boxes. “Just tell her.”

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes. “I got Mrs. McDermott. Who’d you get?”

  “Ha!” A wicked grin spread over my sister’s freckled face. “Mrs. McDermott?! Ha ha! She’s mean! She hits kids and everything. You’re going to hate her. Everyone does.”

  “Oh stop that!” my mother protested. “She’s a very nice lady.”

  “You wouldn’t know,” my sister sassed. “Last year she threw a chair at a kid for talking in class.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it! You’d better stop that! You’re going to scare your sister to death!”

  “It is too true. Rebecca told me.” She stuck her tongue out and sneered when my mother turned away.

  A nervous feeling pitted in my gut. I’d heard the rumors too, but I didn’t pay much attention because it didn’t have anything to do with me at the time. Now, it seemed it would.  However, seventh grade was months away. I tried to forget about it as I soldiered forth into the long summer ahead. Unfortunately, my sister had other plans.

  “Hey guess what?” she laughed, running over to the greet the boys next door as soon as we got to camp. “Kristy got Mrs. McDermott for home room next year. And she has her for History too. She’s going to hate her, isn’t she?” She raised her eyebrows knowingly.

  Shane whistled through his teeth. “Geez. Good luck.” He shook his head. “She’s tough! I heard no one passes her class. She yells at kids and last year she made someone cry.”

  She turned to me and smirked. “See? I told you.”

  It was like that all summer. Not just with Mrs. McDermott, but the other teachers on my list were picked apart and analyzed for their worst qualities.

  Now, there I sat with just two weeks left. I was a mess!

  “Shake it up in there! Let’s get a move on!” My dad bellowed impatiently from the truck outside.

  I sighed and started for the door.

  “Don’t forget the catalogs!” my mother called.

  My sister rushed ahead of me and scooped them off the table. “I’m looking first.”

  “Good.” I pouted.

  We climbed into our truck and started on our final journey to camp that year.

   

  Time is something that can either be a friend or a foe, and as I arrived back at camp for my last two weeks of summer vacation, I felt it snaking around my neck and tightening into a noose. It was my enemy, and I cursed it as much as a kid my age dared.

  At the beginning of the summer, there was so much time, I had plenty to waste. It stretched further than I could see, and held months of mysteries and possibilities. School and Mrs. McDermott had been far into my future, but now it was almost here.

  I stomped down to the lake, found the biggest and clunkiest rock I could find, and hurled it into the water.

  “Stupid school,” I said, scowling into the ripples I’d made.

  My dad saw and heard me. “What in the name of jeeslum is the matter with you?”

  I didn’t turn around.

  “She’s being a big baby cause summer’s almost over and she’s gotta go to school soon.” My sneered.

  My dad shook his head. “Are you going to pout the whole rest of the GD summer?”

  “Maybe,” I glowered.

  “Well, it seems to me like that’ll be an awful waste. Why don’t you go fishing? Who knows? There might just be a trout out there on a day like this.” He winked.

  I started up the pine dock, slowly, with my head down. I didn’t want to let on that his suggestion had brightened my mood in the slightest.

  My mother cut in, “Oh no she doesn’t. She’s going to get in here and help with some of this stuff.” She heaved a plastic tote off the ground and started up the stairs.

  I sighed heavily and started back down.

  “Let the kid fish, Jo.” It wasn’t a question. My dad had spoken and I loved him for it. He knew what I needed.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “One hour and then I want you in here.” She let the screened door slam behind her.

  I ran the rest of the way up the dock and sat down in my special place on the big gray rock.

  You can work out a lot of problems in your head while holding a fishing pole, and after a few minutes, I’d thought of a couple of things that made me feel a little better…sick days, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas vacation… If I planned it right, I might not have to spend that much time in school after all!

  I smiled and cast out again. My bobber landed with a plop on the wavy surface, dipped out of sight for just a second, then popped back up.

  I looked out over the landscape. The trees on the far shore were changing. Yellows and reds were a contrast to the dark green pines. My heart squeezed. Time really was growing late. I would miss camp over the months ahead. It was my place. I was safe there, but brave. I was a woodsman and a builder. I was a trail blazer and a fisherman. I was a hiker and a frog hunter. I was anything I wanted to be.

  I would miss the sound of the loons calling at night and the waves crashing against the shore. I would miss the pine soft ground under my bare feet and the smell of the boggy water.

  The breeze blowing off the lake was chilly and persistent. I zipped up my sweatshirt and shivered slightly. From then forward, the cool wind would be a daily reminder of the changes to come and wouldn’t let up much.

  That time of year my dad called them ‘the winds of change.’

  “You know why it’s so damn cold dontcha?” he’d ask. “Cause that wind is coming straight down from Canada. Yup, they’re sending us winter, that’s for sure.”

  I didn’t much care for Canada after I’d heard that, but as I sat there, the wind ruffled my hair, tickled my cheek, and helped to dry the tears I didn’t want my dad to see.

  My sister stuck her head out of the front door. “Mom says you have to get in here and now,” she smirked.

  I rolled my eyes, set my pole down, and got up. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking and flapping, bound for someplace warmer. To a place where they could extend their summer by weeks. I wanted to go with them.

  I went inside and washed my hands.

  My sister thrust the catalogs my way as I was drying off. “Mom said you should pick out your school clothes. I already did mine.” She grinned proudly and added, “If I were you, I’d pick something besides jeans and T-shirts. I heard Mrs. McDermott always makes favorites out of the kids who dress nice.”

  Really, just kill me…

  Those two weeks went fast, just like I thought they would. I visited all my favorite places at least a dozen times and said goodbye to the frogs and chipmunks. I walked the length of our cove’s shoreline with the kids next door and lost a shoe in the mud. I helped stack wood, and clean up the colony.

  I managed to pick out my clothes, too. All nice things. No T-shirts or anything. I was going to need all the help I could get.

  The last day at camp, my chest felt tight as we gathered up our things and packed them into the truck. My nerves were jangled as I thought of the coming week and Mrs. McDermott and school.

  I slumped down to the shore and gazed out at my lake and mountain one last time. It was quiet and still for the first time in a while. I wanted to capture that moment and those sights and hold onto them for as long as I could. Maybe it would help sustain me through the rough times ahead. Nine months was a long time to miss something I loved so much.
  Tears stung my eyes as I whispered my goodbyes. “I’ll be back,” I said. My heart was heavy as I turned my back and walked away.

  “Let’s shake a leg!” my dad bellowed. He shut the door, secured the padlock, and hustled into the truck. “I wanna get home! I’ve gotta go and I might as well do it where I can flush.”

  Oh dad..

  On a side note:

  Mrs. McDermott turned out to be tough, but fair. She was not half as bad as my sister and Shane told me, so I worried all that time for nothing! In the end, I think I may have been her favorite. Perhaps it was because of my purple velvet jacket and ruffled white shirt?

  I think back to those years at camp as some of the best in my life.

  The camp was sold a few years back, and it broke my heart. I never had the chance to say goodbye, but at least I will always have the experiences and moments I shared there, if only in my memories.

  

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged childhood, maine, nature, parenting, school, series, shortstory, summer

• Road Tripping

  Posted at 12:05 pm by writergherlone, on June 19, 2017

  *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.

   

  

  Road Tripping
  By Kristy Gherlone
  Summer story series

  If you’ve ever stayed in one spot long enough, no matter how much you like it, you start longing for a change of scenery.

  For me, living at camp all summer, it came on gradually. Things that were exciting and new at the beginning of the season started to dull. Back in the late 1970’s, when I was just a kid, this happened nearly every mid- summer.

  I’d catch a fish and swear I’d already caught that same one a half dozen times. Boat bailing and treks to the outhouse became more like work, and I’d swear I’d die if I had to haul one more pail of water!

  Right about the time I’d caught my fill of frogs, the lake became a little tepid for swimming, and my sister and I were at the height of our summer bickering, my parents would talk about packing up the truck for a drive to Upstate New York, where my grandparents lived.

  Apparently, the open road had been calling to all of us.

  The anticipation of the journey would keep me from sleeping the night before. Campgrounds and swimming pools! Four lane highways and side attractions! My belly was full of butterflies as I lay in my swinging bed at camp, imagining all the fun we were going to have.

  The morning of, our coolers were packed with sodas and sandwich fixings, cookies and condiments. My dad would stow the tents, camp stoves, and pillows in the back of the truck, and with a hasty ‘See ya later camp! We’ll be back!’ we’d head down the long dirt road that led south to 95.

  I’d been the hour to Bangor several times. It was as lifeless and boring as a dry creek bed. There was nothing to see. I used to dream about having a portable television so I could make that stretch go faster! My sister and I would fight over the radio station, but dad had the final say, usually settling on anything playing his favorite, Ann Murray.
  After Bangor, things got interesting. Towns and cities appeared nearly every few miles. If I finagled my way to the window seat, I’d roll down the window and stick my head out. The warm wind blew my hair and tickled my ears. Dad would say, “You’re gonna get bugs in your teeth riding like that.” But I didn’t care.

  Inevitably, I’d start to see and smell the aromas of fast food restaurants and start begging to stop. All we had in our town was a McDonalds, so anything else was exciting.

  “Why would we eat that crap when we’ve got real food?” Dad would grunt.

  He’d keep right on going, but we’d stop at meal times to eat at the rest areas. My mother would haul out the red and white checkered table cloth, straighten it with one big whip and a little help from the breeze, and lay it flat on the picnic table before setting out the food.

  There we’d sit, eating our lunches among strangers in lands foreign to me. Sitting out there under the shade of the pine trees, I’d grumble about French fries and burgers, but that was my job as a kid!

  We’d get back into the truck again and roll on. The air was filled with newness. I could barely wait to see where we were going to camp that night. As long as it had a pool, I’d be happy.

  In our travels over the years, I saw a lot. I’ve been to the depths of Howe Caverns. A lengthy downward elevator took us to the bowels of the earth, to a place where Huckleberry Finn used to roam. I touched a stalagmite and canoed in an underwater river. I’ve seen Fort Ticonderoga and I’ve been to Sturbridge Village. I’ve fed the goats and deer in the Catskills. I thrilled in every part of the journey because for a girl from a small town, I knew in those moments how much more there was out there. It made my mind swim with possibilities.

  As we neared our destination, however, the excitement would fade just a tad.
  Visiting grandparents when you’re a kid is a tricky business. You’re either going to be bored to tears or they’ll give you so much to do you’d wish you were bored to tears. It was a crap shoot.

  My grandparents usually had a lot for us to do, but on the good visits, grandad would pack us into the old station wagon and drive us to their cottage in Pennsylvania. It smelled musty and old in there until grandad rushed around opening the windows, letting in the clean pond air. It was also filled with stuff from the past. Kitchen gadgets and furniture lived there that were older than me. I’d walk around looking at things and try to imagine what life was like back when those things were new. Grandad would put a Sinatra record on the player and tell me about the dances they used to have across the pond at the pavilion.
  There at the cottage, I’d do pretty much everything I’d been doing all summer at my own camp, but it felt different. I traded ordinary squirrels for the ones that flew. Perch fishing for bass, and canoe paddling for my granddad’s row boat. Eventually, though it would be time for us to say goodbye.

  It’s funny, now, that I don’t remember much about the drive home, but I do remember feeling relieved as we turned onto the long dirt road, leading back to camp.

  Those road trips all those years ago were the best part of summer, but after being gone so long, everything seemed fresh and new again.

  My feelings about needing a change of scenery every so often haven’t waned, now that I’m older. The open road still calls to me. Every summer I long to hop in the car and take a long drive. I hope this summer I’ll get to do just that.

  

  

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged 1970, adventures, childhood, NY, roadtrip, summertravel

• The Best Kind of Company

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

   

   

  *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

   

  

  *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

• Imagination Rock

  Posted at 11:52 am by writergherlone, on June 15, 2017

  *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 photo presented is an actual photo of me during that time)

   

  Imagination Rock

  Summer Story Series

  By Kristy Gherlone

   

   

   

  Mornings came early at the lake when I was a child. Chickadees began to prattle before the light even peeked over the horizon. They’d wake me with their busy conversations.

   

  I’d poke my nose up and take a whiff around. The smells inside our camp would tell me a lot. Hints of sweet birch smoke meant the fire in the old black wood stove had been lit sometime in the night. It would be chilly enough for a sweater. If I couldn’t smell coffee, it meant my mother wasn’t up yet. I’d have to hurry before she asked me to sweep the outhouse! If she was, sometimes I’d pull the handkerchief quilt she made for me back up around my chin and think about sleeping in, but even I had to laugh at that. The fish were waiting!

   

  Quietly, I’d get up and dress. I’d sneak down the spiral staircase my grandpa made, being careful to avoid the squeaky step. I’d tiptoe over to the door and head outside.

   

  With a can full of juicy worms and fishing pole in hand, I’d skip down to the lake and up the rickety pine dock that led the top of the big rock on the shore, and sit in my special spot.

  I’d thread the worm onto my hook and cast out as far as my line would let me, and wait.

   

  The water, all glassy, mirrored both mountain and sky. Dappled sunlight danced across my face, making it hard to see until my eyes could adjust. On clear days, I could see the entire mountain. It looked like it had been expelled from the lake in one big upwards push. It was jagged and mysterious. I would think about the people climbing at that moment, and suddenly, I’d be there too! I’d be working my way up the rocky, terrain, scurrying over fallen trees, and scaling gigantic boulders.  Then I’d stand at the top, out of breath and sweaty from the effort, and wave at everyone below.

   

  Sometimes, a jet would fly over my head, way up past the puffs of clouds, leaving a powdery, white trail behind. I’d wonder about where it was going. I’d close my eyes and then I would be on that jet too! I’d be heading to Florida or Hawaii or maybe even the other side of the world! In a pressed, pink business suit, I would order a Shirley Temple from the stewardess, peek out the tiny window, and smile down at the girl fishing on the lake.

   

  Sometimes, boats would race into our cove, and circle the island before leaving again in a hurry. Before I knew it, I’d be on that boat! I would be in my bathing suit, heading to the lake store for ice cream and hotdogs, or maybe even to the sandy beach! I’d drop my fishing line in and *troll the whole way or maybe even pull a *Togue up from the depths.

  If the air was still and the wind didn’t rustle the leaves, I could hear all the way to the Golden Road. The sounds made there would echo across our lake. Giant trucks full to the top with tree-length logs zipped up and down. I could hear the engines shift as they maneuvered the hills. Suddenly, I would be in one of those trucks! I would be dodging moose and speeding over the dirt roads on my way to Canada!

   

  After a while, I’d hear the pans rattling in the kitchen inside camp. My tummy would rumble and then I’d know it was time to head back inside. My mother would be wondering where I’d run off to.

   

  She would meet me at the front door and ask, “Where have you been?”

  I would say, “Everywhere.”

  *Togue- A lake trout. Usually quite large in size.

   

   

   

   

   

  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged 1980, childhood, maine, nature, shortstory

• Voices From Near and Far Away

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

  

  *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

• The Long Dirt Road

  Posted at 11:54 am by writergherlone, on June 13, 2017

  *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 photo presented is an actual photo of me during that time)

  The Long Dirt Road

  Part One: A Story of Summer

  By Kristy Gherlone

   

  There’s a road that inhabits a fair amount of space in my mind. I call it forward whenever I need a smile. I close my eyes and suddenly it’s there. Long and narrow, wash boarded and potholed. When I was a child, it was as familiar to me as it was a mystery. While the road itself didn’t change, the scenery often did. I never knew what we might see as my dad and I drove along.

   

  Sometimes there were moose. They’d come crashing out of the woods, shaking their heads and twitching their ears, crazy from the black flies and heat. They’d stomp all gangly legged in front of us before turning to trot back in again. I felt bad for them. They were tormented by bugs in the summer, and up to their bellies in snow during the winter. I used to try and convince my dad to build houses for them to escape to.

   

  If we were lucky, there might be a black bear nibbling raspberries in the dusty bushes that lined the sides, but they were either shy or snobby. They didn’t care for company, and would bound off as soon as they heard us coming. To see one was a real treat.

   

  I’d scan obsessively for bull frogs all along that road. They’d sit in the puddles, snapping up flies. I could spot their glassy eyes protruding on the murky surface a mile away, but they would always dive under as we neared, sending ripples in their wake. They couldn’t hide from me. I’d go back later to collect them. Knee deep in mud catching frogs was my life!

   

  I remember rolling down the window on the gold Custom Deluxe truck.

  I used to poke my head out and breathe in the powerful, tangy scent of pines. To this day, that smell makes me happy in a way that can’t be duplicated. The stream that ran along most parts of the road rushed restlessly in the spring and trickled lazily in the fall. Its smell was both boggy and clean as we drove over it on the old splintered bridge. I used to dream about the fish I’d catch in there the next time I had the chance and then I’d hang out as far as I could and try to spit far enough to hit the water.

   

  I’d reach out when we came to the clusters of sapling trees and let the leaves tickle my palm. Every now and then I’d find a big one and tear it off.

  Dad would say, “You know what that is, don’t ya? It’s woodsman’s toilet paper!”

   

  I’d watch for the brown wooden sign that said ‘You are now entering Indian Purchase land.’ I used to envision a whole tribe of Native Americans coming out of the woods. Their bows and arrows would be poised and ready to stop us from going further.

  And then I’d see the tree that stood at the entrance to our turn-off. It meant we were almost to our destination. It was a gorgeous tree, towering well above the rest. Its leaves blazed orange before turning fiery red late in the season. I could hardly stay in my seat with all of the butterflies jumping around in my belly.

   

  In June that road seemed a thousand miles long! We could never get to the end fast enough, but only because it led to Summer’s treasure box. Camp!

   

  Three whole months of fishing, swimming, bike riding and frog catching fun. There would be games of monopoly, and log hopping around the cove. I’d blaze trails through the forest!  I’d sit on the big gray rock, high above the lake, and watch for shooting stars at night. The possibilities were as boundless as my energy.

   

  In late August that road seemed barely a mile. It went too quick! I was sure the very trip would ruin my life. Traveling south, it led back to town. School and dance lessons. Homework and bedtimes. Yuck!

   

  In reality, the road was no more than eight or ten miles, but I’ve traveled it so often it might now add up to a million.

   

  Of course, these days, I mostly travel it in my mind, but it’s definitely a road that’s worth the journey.

   

  

  Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments | Tagged cabins, childhood, maine, nature, shortstory

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