I took a long cool swallow of my 12 oz. Budweiser. I tossed the last shovel full of dirt from the fire pit I was digging near the shore of our lot at the lake. Char had covered the picnic tables with plastic tablecloths and arranged the paper plates, napkins and plastic silverware on the flat area of lawn near our little green bunkhouse. Our two coolers, filled with ice and beer sat at the foot of the picnic tables.

It was about 6:30 PM and the shadows of the tall oaks that populated our lot were beginning to lengthen but the mid-July evening promised to be pleasantly warm. The lake was flat calm and the fading daylight cast its glow on the west face of Megunticook Mountain as it towered from the opposite shore. The glassy surface of the lake carried the echoes of the voices of summer residents and distant radio music. The smell of charcoal barbeques and campfires mingled with the near-still evening air. A small motorboat with an older couple trolling eased past the dock, its small wake making a gentle thumping noise as it hit our float. Schools of white perch broke through the shimmering reflection of the mountain and tall pine pines along the far shore.

I had arranged some chunks of dried maple in a tee-pee formation over some kindling at the center of the fire pit. I then stacked some smooth, softball-sized rocks over the maple tee-pee. The day before, Char and I had gone to Lincolnville Beach, hiking the rocky shoreline, gathering mounds of seaweed into large plastic garbage bags that now sat next to the fire pit. I envisioned cooking clams, steamed corn on the cob and lobsters on the steaming seaweed, replete with baked potatoes deep in the heat of the rocks, covering the whole affair with a huge canvas tarp to hold the steam and heat.

I surveyed my work, wiping the sweat from my forehead, and took a deep breath, doubt creeping in. This whole pit fire deal was a big, calculated risk. Among the staff at Tanglewood, I was known as the woodsy, outdoor “camping guy” after all, and everyone expected me to know what I was doing. If I failed and the pit fire cooking went awry, I’d look pretty foolish. If it came off well, it would be pretty cool, the party a success and my reputation intact. Truth be told, this was the first time I’d ever attempted it but I pressed on anyways, hoping for some beginners luck. I took a deep breath and another long draw on my Budweiser.

I grabbed some of “Bacteria Bill’s” strike-anywhere matches and scraped one over a rock. The crackling min-explosion at the tip of the wooden match sent a tiny plume of burning sulfur smoke into the air. I tossed the flaming match in the spaces between the rocks and into the kindling beneath them. It stuck to the edge of a piece of dry birch bark that was wedged among the cedar kindling under the split maple chunks. Gray plumes of fragrant smoke rose and mingled with the light breeze, creating a pleasant aura to the descending dusk. It wasn’t long before the fire was hot and the interior surfaces of the rocks began to glow a deep crimson. So far, so good.

Char had been busy wrapping the washed Russets in aluminum foil, now handing them to me one by one as I set them at the base of the hot rocks. As I placed the last of about a dozen of the big spuds, I heard the unmistakable sound of cars parking at the top of the driveway;doors opening, then thumping shut. The Haddencroft staff were beginning to arrive. Cars lined up in the field at the top of our lot, the tall grass brushing their doors as people piled out, laughing and talking. Most of them gravitated to the fire, like people always seem to, popping beers open, wrestling with corks and pouring wine into plastic glasses. One by one they plopped down their ice-filled styrofoam coolers and canvas tote bags filled with bathing suits, flip-flops and towels. It promised to be a fun filled,happy, summer night.

Haddencroft 10

Boone’s Farm now firmly in hand, Dean eased the screen door to the little cabin open and slipped out into the night, gently replacing the door in its frame without a sound. As he was about to make his way down the path to meet the girls, he turned to take one more glance at Joanne through the screen.

As he did, she shifted slightly, and the rhythm of her snoring broke suddenly into a few short grunts. Dean froze. She shifted again and as she did, she uncrossed her blue-jeaned legs, striking a splayed pose across the mattress. With one leg now dangling off the edge of the bunk, her leather sandal seemed to be poised to drop from its precarious perch at the end of her left big toe.

Dean thought about going back and adjusting the sandal, or perhaps even taking it off completely but her the risk of waking her would be too great. Quietly as he could, he darted down the path towards the fire circle. Not far down the path, he broke into a run. Mere seconds after Dean left the doorway, Joanne gasped, jolting upright, grabbing for air after a period of apnea, her sandal clattering to the floor. Fully awake now she glanced at the door. Through the corner of a blurry eye, the beam of Dean’s flashlight bounced irratically from the spruce trunks as he made his getaway. She sprung from the bunk to the door, confused but wary. “Hellooooo, who’s there?” The woods were silent, and dark.

Jenny and Patty had made their way to the abandoned fire circle, safe in the knowledge that Dean would soon arrive. Passing time, they started to talk as they often did at the end of the day in their bunks, trading stories from their past, comparing notes in the darkness.

Patty went on about the abuse she’s experienced at the hands of her father and uncle, though she didn’t discuss it in the way one might think of as abuse. Rather, the tone of her discourse was “matter of fact”, almost bragging about it as if it represented some sort of conquest.

“I used to catch dad watching me undress at night” Patty related. I’d get my pajamas on and he’d find some excuse to come to tuck me in. I knew he was watching, so sometimes I’d take extra time making sure he got a good look.”

Patty caught a glimpse of Jenny’s face in the beam of her flashlight. She could see the wide-eyed admiration she got from Jenny as she spun her tale. This only encouraged her to fill in the “details”. Even though exaggeration wasn’t really necessary, Patty couldn’t resist. This was delightful to Patty since it served to both embarrass and excite her friend even further. She went on to say that she had discovered she could manipulate her father and get whatever she wanted, eventually extending that influence to her uncle.

Clearly, Patty felt she was in control of all of this, despite the fact she was only about 10 years old when it all began.

Jenny’s experiences were similar in some ways but her reaction to them was totally passive. Her way of dealing with them was to close her eyes and imagine herself detached, pretending they weren’t actually happening to her. For this reason, the details were mercifully blocked from conscious memory but the unspeakable damage harbored itself in other quarters.

Patty was about to go on with her story when the sound of Dean’s footfalls and the wagging beam of his flashlight entered the clearing.

Haddencroft9

Char and I took off for the lake as soon as our respective shifts at Tanglewood were over. We needed to hustle to get ready for the party at my parents summer place on what is now known as “Dickens Road”. In those days it was just plain “Fire Road 63”.

We had given directions to our co-workers at Tanglewood: “It’s just a mile and a half down Hope Road from Petunia Pump”. Petunia Pump served for at least a century and a half as a public well with a cast iron pump covered with a cupola. This local landmark got it’s name because it was decorated in the summer with wooden boxes filled with petunias.

Along the way we stopped at the Center Store for wine, beer, chips and wooden matches for the pit fire I’d planned. The little convenience store, “kitty corner” from Petunia Pump is in the heart of what we jokingly referred to as “Downtown Lincolnville Center”. It had been purchased a few years back by a couple of older folks from “away”. Bill and Jessie Warrington had recently renovated the old two-and-a-half story Victorian that had been built in the era of President Lincoln. To most local folks it was still known as Knights Store.

Bill Warrington sat perched on his stool behind the glass topped counter smoking an endless chain of cigarettes and looking relaxed with his chosen retirement in the sleepy Maine village. His black cardigan sweater was pulled over a wrinkled blue shirt covering his bony frame. Even in the heat of the summer, he felt the cold, so the sweater was a permanent feature.

Regarding Char and I, he peered over his black-framed reading glasses perched at the tip of his pointed nose and flipped a strand of long black hair away from his forehead. “What can I get you kids?” his raspy, but friendly tone escaping in a half wheeze, punctuated with a smokers cough.

“Bacteria Bill” as he’d been nicknamed due to his lack of attendance to personal grooming and hygiene, had remarkably attained nearly instant acceptance in the little town with his easy manner and laid-back approach to absolutely everything.

The place was neat enough, but still had enough stray dust and randomness to qualify as an authentic country store. Its mainstays were beer, wine, bread milk and eggs, but an ever expanding array of exotic beer and wine choices brought folks from towns as far away as Belfast, Searsmont, Camden or Appleton for the selections. Low walk-in coolers lined the back walls next to pin-ball machines and blinking neon beer signs. Antiquated ice cream coolers with heavy white sliding doors served as partitions, separating the customers from the cigarette and candy shelves. The original white tin ceilings were mostly intact, though yellowed from years of neglect.

As an afterthought, Bill and Jessie had tacked on a small addition for serving take out ice cream in the summer. During the summer months, barefoot kids and adults alike made the trek from “Breezemere Park” at Norton’s Pond for the cold treats offered at the sliding glass window.

“Just the beer chips and wine for now, Bill”, Char announced, fishing her wallet from the depths of her handbag. “You got any wooden “strike anywhere” matches, Bill? I couldn’t find ‘em” I added. Bill pointed a bony finger at the shelf over the canned goods and I followed it, locating the matches. Chatting pleasantly as she always does, Char asked about Mary, Bill and Jessie’s ten-year-old daughter. “Oh, she’s around someplace, probably riding her bike” Bill responded as he lit another cigarette, well before the last one was finished. “Party at the lake, I bet!” Bill guessed knowingly. He’d seen my sisters and I take advantage of our summer place at the lake over the last few years, often hosting family get-togethers, parties with our friends and even a couple of wedding receptions.