Tag: maine

• 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

• Search for:

• Recent Posts

  • Art in all Things
  • The Dollhouse
  • The Forest Fire
  • The Carnival
  • No Parking

• Categories

  • Uncategorized (63)
  • shortstory (4)
  • #prose (3)
  • nature (2)