Through a Child's Eyes

I was four-years-old when my parents made a life-changing decision to pursue their own sporting camp business. They would leave their family and friends and move back into the woods, 23 miles away from civilization. The journey into the woods began with a long stretch of desolate aged pavement where moose were free to roam with little fear of traffic. An aged wooden sign with chipped paint indicated that “Pierce Pond Camps” lay ahead at the next turn. That right-hand-turn was a dirt road that ran for miles into the heart of the woods. Even when you got to the end of the dirt road, you needed to climb into a boat for the last leg of your journey. It was there, I would grow up under the umbrella of my parent's dream and vision.

Sporting camp life is a lifestyle all unto itself. It is a demanding hospitality business with no room for conventional expectations. There are no weekends off, or summer vacations on the coast. However, through the eyes of a four-year-old child, it was heavenly. There was always something to do, work or play. Age knew no boundaries when it came to the expectation of work. Everyone had chores to do. One chore I remember vividly was bleaching all the wooden clothespins that were used on the outdoor lines where all the laundry was hung. Laundry was washed in a wringer washer, bleached and rinsed in two set-tubs then hung on the lines. There was one line that was short enough for me to hang the washcloths, pegged from end-to-end, never from the corner with a single pin. I can't tell you why, it's just the way it was done.

Another fun chore was cleaning the fish brought in by the guests. I simply thought they didn't want to get their hands dirty, but for them it was unique to watch a little girl maneuver the insides of a fish with style and speed. At that time live worms were permitted in fishing the Pierce Pond watershed, so I made an extra nickel or two selling worms that I dug in the rich soil. At that age, I had the liberty to hang out near the docks or in the kitchen. Because of that my experiences were well-rounded and molded at an early age.

It was not all work and no play for the children. Most afternoons we would line up on the dock and take turns jumping into the lake. My cousin and I were the youngest and had not yet learned to swim. We were inevitably placed at the end of the line inside a big black inner-tube that would hold us up out of the water. Each night we would gather after dinner and play “tin can alley.” The game was an outdoor version of hide and seek, using a tin can and long sticks to plague the one deemed “it.” Collecting frogs, snakes and minnows kept me very busy, along with taking voice lessons from the families of common loons. The mystique in calling to the loons could virtually transfer the imagination of a small child to a different plane where wildlife is the sole inhibitor.

I never knew of a summer any different until young adulthood. My roots run very deep into the Maine woods, and I can't imagine a better beginning.