A Rocky Remembrance

written by Brianna S.

The mountains were NOT calling.

At least not to me. Each summer, I would see the shimmer in my brother’s eyes as we began preparations for our yearly trip to Maine. Even my father’s countenance, normally grumpy and stoic, would give off a gleeful hum – just short of tangible – as he readied his pick-up truck for our departure. This was a week-long affair of groundwork: completely emptying the trunk, hosing out the truck bed, meticulously wiping down the cover, carefully stuffing it full, Tetris-like, first with hiking supplies and then (when my mother was finally permitted access) to our suitcases full of things like long-sleeved clothing (despite the summer heat), bug spray, lots of books, and even my beloved stuffed cat. We were all on our way to central Maine, to my paternal grandparents’ house and, ultimately, to the rustic cabin they owned in the woods near the Pleasant River.

For as long as I can remember, being outside has been a big part of my life. We had a lovely acre of land surrounding my childhood home, and my brother and I grew up during the quaint era of cutting your kids loose around the neighborhood with the simple instruction to “return before dark.” THIS sort of outdoors I liked: popping wheelies on my paper-delivery bike, playing wiffle ball, hunting for morels, and writing poems in my journal while sitting on the pine-needled carpet of the special spot shaded by the replanted Christmas trees of years past.

But something was different about going to Maine, the mountains. I couldn’t retreat to my home’s cozy bed, away from the threats of bugs and sunburn. There was no escaping the unpleasantness when we stayed at “On the Rocks,” the name given to the place due to the splash of rocks between the cabin and the river. There was no electricity or running water; a propane tank supplied gas lights and kept a refrigerator and stove humming. A large hand pump at the sink would bring up water from the river – not potable, of course – that my grandmother would boil in a large pot before washing the dishes.

Even the trip to the cabin was a torturous affair. Leaving home, my brother and I were stuffed in the back of my dad’s Nissan, buckled into those awful sideways seats that pull down from the vehicle walls. This meant that we were facing each other for the entire two-day trip, resulting in contortions and kick fights that often got us both scolded. Water would leak in from the small sliding rear window when it rained, and my brother and I would take turns stuffing paper towels in the cracks, replacing them when they were soaked through and threatened to drip. For the drive from my grandparents’ house to the cabin, we would be upgraded to the backseat of my grandmother’s Subaru station wagon, but even this was a tainted blessing; my grandmother’s two obese cats, Princess and Penelope, got carsick despite medication, quickly filling the hatchback air with the sour smell of cat vomit and the mournful moans of miserable felines. (I adore cats, but even my memories of them are filled with their puke smell more than their soft cuteness.)

For me, the worst offense of the whole enterprise was the outhouse found a short walk away from the cabin. Any time one of us had to do our business, we were faced with the very likely possibility of encountering spiders, some as big as my 10-year-old hand. I literally prayed each time that the spiders would truly be gone, ushered away by my mother, and that one wouldn’t cruelly strike while I was in the middle of my task, helplessly paralyzed by my body’s need. Many squeals could be heard during these outhouse trips.

For my mother, the most dreadful thing wasn’t the spiders but the mice. Upon our arrival, my grandmother would turn on the oven as high as it would go, and my nostrils can still bring up the rancid scent of incinerating mouse nests, musty and dank.

Even sleep brought little relief. Despite all of my vigorous efforts, I couldn’t ever quite seem to rid all traces of dirt and sand from my feet and my bedsheets. These remnants taunted me repeatedly throughout the night, and no amount of windshield-wiper-like motions from my legs could bring respite. In the middle of the very dark and critter-noisy night, we weren’t expected to trek out to the outhouse, but the alternative brought its own horrors – squatting over the pot in the corner, leaving an acrid perfume for anyone awakened by the tinkling.

You’ve likely noticed, dear reader, that I haven’t yet mentioned mountains. Unfortunately, I don’t have positive things to say about my experiences with them, either. On the days when we couldn’t get out of it, my mother and I would join our other family members, who buzzed with excitement on the drive over to the base of the mountain we’d be trekking that day. My father’s step took on a proud purpose, and my brother grinned from ear to ear as we embarked on the trailhead. I, however, sullenly brought up the back, pouting as I tried desperately not to trip or get covered in bug bites. I never understood how the brief stay at the peak – though often breathtakingly beautiful – could be worth the entire day’s tiresome efforts. Even the lunch at the top was an insult: soggy sandwiches washed down by tinny canteen water. The only succor: if I finished my entire sandwich, I could then delight in a thick molasses cookie purchased from the Milo IGA.

And like that rich but rare treat, not all of my memories of the cabin in Maine are negative. I enjoyed fishing with my grandmother, sliding a worm zig-zag on the hook, the exciting pull of the bobber as a fish gave in to temptation. (Even this elation was ruined, though, the day my grandmother forced me to kill the sunfish I caught to bring home to her cats. My rock blows were unsuccessful, and I am still haunted by my failures and by my grandmother’s ultimately efficacious whack.)

But back to the positive!

On Sunday mornings before Mass, my mother would lovingly place my church clothes under the covers while waking me, allowing them to warm up from the woodsy chill before dressing. On the way back from the local church, we’d stop by the convenience store to buy cherry and watermelon Airheads, savoring the last opportunities of air conditioning in the now-hot day.

At night after the dishes were done – water boiled, pans scrubbed, and plates and utensils dried – we’d all gather around the dining room table again to play cards. Once my brother and I were old enough, we’d typically play pinochle, and it was in the strategy and teamwork of the game that I finally felt truly connected to my grandmother and my father, even felt like they were proud of me. This blissful feeling usually kept at bay the annoyance of the no-see-ums bullying for space near the glowing buds of the gas lights hanging from the ceiling.

My favorite cabin task, however, was definitely bathing. Though most aspects of our not having running water bugged me, I relished the opportunity to trek down to the river in my water shoes and swimsuit to our bathing spot. I loved being tickled by minnows as I sudsed up, sitting on the inner-tube-sized boulder as I splashed my brother by kicking my feet, tipping my head backward so that my long hair floated in the water behind me as the shampoo rinsed out, admiring dragonflies and skimmers that seemingly defied physics as they perched on the water’s surface. The worst element of bathing was the threat of horse flies, and we all had to be prepared to completely submerge at a moment’s notice to avoid their sharp and painful bites. But even this hazard bred camaraderie: we’d patrol each other’s backs and shoulders, ever ready to yelp a warning and deftly splash the tyrant pest away. My brother and I, typically rivals in childhood, suddenly became partners in this high-stakes quest for human survival – or, at least, for welt avoidance.

I haven’t been back to the cabin in years – decades, actually – and I can’t honestly say that I miss the place. In fact, I’m certain that I would hate it even more as my adult life has provided me the freedom to make my own choices about comfort. But I will admit, now, with both grandparents gone and the real possibility that I’ll never set foot there again, that the images that most resonate in the peripheral edges of my memory are the sweet ones: my grandmother leaning over in the rocky yard to pick plump blueberries for pie, my brother and I scrambling up Snoopy Rock – a boulder shaped like the famous dog’s head – to its jubilant and easily won summit, reading a book and nibbling on cheese in the screened-in porch during cocktail hour, watching hummingbirds swarm the feeders hung outside the kitchen window, feeding whole peanuts, shell and all, to the chipmunk, Chippy, who lived under the log pile.

Just like I found joy in those trips to the swimming hole, I take my memories of this place – dirtied by sweat and bugs and boredom and Borax-tinted outhouse stench and mouse droppings and, well, dirt – and scrub them clean with a soaped-up washcloth, even remembering to covertly attend to the covered bits. Because isn’t that what we do with processed memories, especially childhood ones? We swat the scary horse flies off our backs, dunk our heads, and let the rest of the dirt drift off down-river.