As children during the summer, we would vacation in a dutch colonial lakeside home on one of the most beautiful places in the world, Lake Maranacook in the Vacationland state of Maine, U.S.A. At the house we affectionately called camp, the world was serene, unencumbered and a supremely fertile environment for creativity and imagination.
For eights weeks out of the year we lived in a world that was devoid of modern technology. We filled our days fishing for bass and yellow perch, boating, swimming and water skiing on Lake Maranacook. At gloaming and into the night, we read books, and old Reader’s Digests left from the previous owner from the early 1950s. We sang to songs on the radio, records being played on the record player (not a phonograph–we’re not that old) and the cassette deck. The television with the rabbit ears antenna was temperamental and on the nights we couldn’t get any reception we’d play board games by the lit fireplace at a table under a light fixture that looked like a wagon train wheel from a John Ford movie.
Camp Maranacook was a special time when our parents took time off from work and taught us their skills. We learned to sew, make beds and play killer scrabble from our mother. Our father taught us how to fish, water ski, prime the well pump and handyman work.
When we’d go to bed at night there wasn’t nary a street light, only the high beam of the moon. In the morning, the Camp Maranacook world ushered in the promise of a new adventure to embark upon. Whether it be a walk up the railroad tracks, a hike through the woods, a joy ride in the boat down the lake to the train trestle, or a rainy day doing chores inside the camp, we always cherished every day during the short summer stints we were there. It was our beloved home, away from home, Camp Maranacook.