Cedar and Raspberries - Overview

 Dear Mom,

You've truly been an inspiration throughout my life.  You've been there for me to listen to my latest ramblings about work or home.  You brought to me a value of family while honoring fierce independence. Your sense of civic rights along with a general appreciation of nature have all woven into the fabric of whom I am.  I think of you often, and I dedicate this new blog to you!

Love, Kate

~

It was a damp overcast summer day in Maine.  The air smelled of cedar and woodsmoke.  Through the raindrops, I could see the dots of orange daylilies next door at my aunt's camp.  

I put on my raincoat and flip-flops, gathered my sisters, and opened the squeaky back door.  Remembering parents had gone for a shop, we let the screen door swing free for a satisfying slam close.  

Spying the dirt camp road to our grandmother's, we ventured out into the dampness.  As we walked up the steep hill, we were delighted to see ripe raspberries tantalizing us.  On closer examination, there were several bunches ready for plucking. I popped a few berries into my mouth, tasting that sweet flavor that enhanced memories of summers prior.

That afternoon, we were back at the lake, sitting on the screened porch reading a book. Then the quiet was broken by those oh-so-familiar voices of laughter emitting from our neighbors "down the pond." I was energised a few moments to run down and get involved, but that feeling passed and I went back to my book.  Many decades later, I learned about the concept of "fomo" and I am sure it was rooted for me in these moments.

Later that evening, after a family spaghetti dinner and tv game shows on the 13" black and white, balanced on a painted wooden stool, we donned our sweatshirts and returned to the screened porch.

You would think the screens would protect us from mosquitoes and flies and such, and for the most part, they did.  However, invariably tiny moths would find their way in, and then group around the orange plastic 70s mushroom lamp on the antique wooden table that was so familiar for many family meals over the summers past.  Whether we were playing cards Florida rummy or Uno, or parents playing bridge or Canasta, the next morning we would always find many of the toy moths had lived life to their fullest and many were dropped into the near-empty coffee cups.  They were forever known as "coffee bugs"

Thinking forward, it's not the coffee bugs I think about but the fact that there was always half an inch of coffee left in the cups.  Over the last 10 years my husband and I have been married, he has often found a drinking glass or mug or water bottle with less than an inch left; why didn't I finish them?  Makes me wonder about those very bright years while my parents were still married (when I was under direct influence of both parents).

Once a week, after dark, we would hear the tires (or engines?) of the race cars at the other end of the pond.  I went once, and my older cousin and I rode the Ferris wheel over and over.  Did I make her miss any of the fun? She also made the trek back to Maine many decades later for my wedding, so I am hoping not. But ever since I have enjoyed hearing a car race in the background, never caring who was in them.  After the races, the quiet would return to our cove, eventually, sounds of bullfrogs and loons would fill the air and feed my dreams.

                                ~

I never had much issue with my parents being divorced. There was no obvious fighting (by agreement it turned out). It introduced new adventures to me.  A new town to explore, new people to meet. Cinemas, shops, a new camera habit. Lots of enriched reading including my first introduction to British-American Bill Bryson.

But what I have observed throughout my life as I examine my likes and dislikes and try to define myself, is that many of what I have landed on as notable or desirable, all stem back to those early summers in Maine when my parents were young and married living family life.

Those sounds and smells of those days remain strong with me to this day. The smoky whiff of LAPSANG SOUCHONG reminds me quickly of those damp summer mornings after Dad built a fire in the central woodstove in the middle of the living room.  He used to put on a quilted beige jacket while gathering the kindling, and after the fire caught and started to dry the dampness from the night, he would go back to bed for a bit, but before i knew it the coffee percolator would wake me up to a cozy camp world.

Each morning, after we finished our Cheerios and milk, and swept the wooden camp floors, we were allowed to run over to our other grandmother's, seeing her orange daylilies welcoming us by the kitchen door.. Many decades later these are synonymous with my aunt who has taken over the main living every summer, all summer. Grammy would be making toast in the boiler drawer in the oven.  She would mix together some honey and butter and offer up a bit of goodness for us all.

Back in those days, the cousins used to come up with another aunt and sepend two weeks.  These were magical weeks for me.  More another time.