g r a v i t y

Mom and I dug a grave Saturday.

After paying a very awkward and apologetic veterinarian to fill the veins of my mom’s 17 1/2 year old Blue Point Siamese with a candy pink fluid, we watched this tiny slip of a kitty peacefully “fall asleep.” Her forced shallow breathing slowed and then stopped. We cried while mom carried the box to the car both of us remarking that Claire was heavier dead.

After rushing around Portland for various last minute supplies, we raced out to Lovell to dig a grave before it was too dark. Digging a grave after the sun is down, even a very small one, is just too creepy... and impractical.

Mom wanted to bury Claire in Lovell where other family pets “rest.” I understand that my grandfather even buried a horse at the upper end of the field.

It took us roughly 30 minutes to make our way through various levels of Lovell earth to reach a safe 2 1/2 feet. The tight circumference and rocky soil hindered our progress making it impossible to reach the recommended three feet. New England land is tough. (Stone walls are beautiful and were a smart way to mark property for pragmatic settlers who needed to clear fields of ancient glacial debris.) Besides the tough earth blunting our shovels we also ran into a lot of water from recent rains creating an uninviting cold mud puddle at the bottom of the hole. So difficult for my mom considering she was just kissing her kitty’s warm head earlier that morning.

We wrapped her in a white cloth after taking one last look at her curled up peacefully inside a tiny shoebox. All of the levels of earth were then piled back in the hole on top of Claire with the rocks last to mark the grave.

No eulogy but a simple goodbye.

We returned the next morning to check for any evidence of furry grave robbers but instead found a feral cat sitting in the early winter sun on a huge boulder two feet from Claire’s grave. Finding a cat outside in this rural part of Maine is unusual. We agreed that this vigilant cat was there to keep Claire company.

Or was it there to show mom Claire was not alone?

i n f e s t a t i o n

We’ve been outnumbered by ladybugs.

Fall has brought an infestation of Asian Lady Beetles looking for the perfect spot for winter hibernation. The cute little red and black polka-dotted beetles have swarmed our property and seem especially attracted to our light-colored house. We’ve been assured that they still symbolize good luck even numbering in the thousands. Sadly, many have been squashed around the site and many more encased in the house structure as we seal their fate while laying red cedar shingles.

No other insect could make me feel such remorse.

Ladybug ladybug fly away home,

Your house in on fire and your children are gone,

All except one and that’s little Ann,

For she crept under the frying pan.

Remember?

l o s t

Do you know how it feels to be lost? Not metaphorically, really lost.

In the woods?

My younger brother visited mid-September. We took a quick hike above Cushman Pond. I knew just where I was going, until I didn’t.

We zigged when we should have zagged.

I have absolutely no inner-compass and should always remember to do the opposite that my gut tells me. When traveling I rely on Barry who has an incredible sense of direction. I am an excellent map reader and can find the shortest route anywhere. However, my brother and I didn’t have a map, we had me.

Hiking guidebooks advise that you carry emergency supplies even on short 1-2 hour trips. I carried with me a pint of water for our three-mile hike. No energy bar. No bars even on my brother’s iPhone.

Our one-hour hike became four.

We found ourselves in the middle of the Five Kezars. We headed West refusing to turn around. When I guessed we were on the Old Waterford Road after seeing a Kezar Falls sign, I knew we were in trouble. Kezar Falls is in the middle of nowhere.

I had never experienced being lost. Ever. Panic sets in. The Maine woods get very dark at night when there’s only a sliver of a moon and the forest is dense. I began thinking of the black bear, moose, and coyote that were just waiting for it to get dark enough to make their move. Periodically my adrenaline would rise up and tickle my uvula. Swallowing hard, I would push it back down benefiting only in a quickened pace.

It was 5:45 when we hitched a ride seven miles away from Route 5. If it was mid morning I would’ve been up for the adventure, but lowering evening temperatures and still no real grasp on our location were cause for alarm. I realized the depth of our situation while sitting in a beat up old Subaru making small talk to our angelic driver, her two friends, and her baby, who kindly delivered us to the bottom of 5A where we humbly walked up the tar road home.

Our real danger was minimal but a big fat reality check for a casual hiker.

f l u x

Autumn temperatures are mild enough so that I can wear a light sweater. The air is crisp and clear. Everything is changing - it's an in-between time.

I will miss swimming in Kezar but look forward to the snow. Hiking in the woods is different with snowshoes - you can find places that in other seasons are hidden.

The sun is lower adding even more dramatic color. Trees, especially the Maples, are really showing off. It's as if they're asking to be remembered before their long sleep, tired of photosynthesizing and in need of much deserved rest. The bugs have stopped their harassing ways. Eggs will freeze and thaw along with the protective waters blanketing them. Not enough of the offspring will be eaten. Squirrels and chipmunks dodge cars while gathering their winter stock. Bear, hikers, and soon deer, dodge hunters. Obsessive birders check off their lists.

Storm windows and plastic screening are installed to protect old homes from cold drafts. Wood piles organized into neat rows. Wool sweaters unpacked.

Our house is still being built. Windows and doors will be installed mid-October. We should have our metal roof next week. Plumbing and electricity will be hooked up and running soon enough. I like the process but I'm impatient. I want to be sitting in my chair quietly looking at my changing view.

l o o n d o w n

Sunday morning Barry and I spent paddling around Kezar Lake where the autumn colors are just beginning. We put in our kayaks at Pleasant Point where there’s a sandy beach available only for Lovell taxpayers and their friends and family. A sign reads: “No dogs and other domestic animals.” Curious about the history behind that rule. My mind immediately goes to the different pet trends of the last 15 years: pot belly pigs, sugar gliders, hedgehogs, ferrits.

No?

We meandered around to the left gliding near shoreline camps that reflect the architectural styles of past vacationers’ aesthetics. My favorite, of course, are the the older buildings going back to the late 1800s when Lovell was first discovered by people from away as an ideal vacation spot. Top of the list? The boathouses straddling the water with canoes and kayaks protected beneath. Some have rooms above with kitchens, bedrooms, bathrooms and all other comforts including much needed screened porches. Though Kezar isn’t an overly crowded lake, it surprised me to see how many camps line the shores.

Continuing South we came across four loons that hardly noticed us while they continued fishing and grooming, making small noises to each other as small black and white feathers floated our way. I just couldn’t let the downy feathers pass. There’s something so tender about coming across the innermost fluff of a wild bird.

We skirted around a large group of noisy teenage canoers, avoided a boat carrying three generations of weekend fishermen, and then glidded under the Narrows Bridge where I tried to see hints of all the failed bridges that stood there before. Just a little further on we floated amongst a large community of water lilies in their almost plastic perfection. And then the narrow passage opened up to Kezar’s lower bay and more of the White Mountains. They’re a softer mountain range than what I grew up with in the Puget Sound. A quieter drama. Older.

But then there’s Mount Washington with it’s record-breaking weather breaking its own records yearly.

We promised ourselves to come back and survey this part of the lake and its southern outlet deciding that using the boat launch at the marina would be a better start. (Well, I decided this.) And so we turned around just in time to enjoy the small rollers began by a Boston Whaler carrying a grandfather and his four grandsons. Right as the boat slowed down at the markers, the boys started to yell and run around the slowly moving craft. They jumped in and out of the water, daring themselves to jump further, but close enough to still get back to the boat before it moved too far. The grandfather sat still and sure as these boys scrambled all over the boat and water like little monkeys. This group was well practiced in this boating adventure. All were assured how the system worked. Just as the other marker came close the boys all returned to their places and the grandfather hit the motor.

As we rounded the corner I saw the promised danger of hijinks as three of the boys began spitting contests over the side of the bridge. The grandfather was moored at the marina and out of earshot.

I planned my route.

l e g a c y

A stranger with a huge smile approached me the other day at the Center Lovell Market asking excitedly how progress on the building was going. I had no idea who he was but acted as if we had just talked last week and had known each other for years. This happens to me a lot in Lovell. Friends and family members have watched me grow up over the years with my sporadic visits. A relative would be introduced here or there by my grandfather with quick details of which branch on the family tree they occupied or an old friend and where they lived, usually a road I’d heard of but couldn’t place, and so on. Visits were always too short to allow for revealing conversations or experiences that would later make into memories. So Maine friends and family often seem a blur to me.

While I tried to place this friendly Mainer, he saw Barry and decided it was a good time to introduce himself. He lives roughly a quarter mile down Slab City Road from our property. I’ve talked with him only a handful of times and I’ve met his girlfriend who keeps her horses on the land across the road from us. These beautiful animals are kept where my grandparents had two ponies - a picturesque spot in between the house and Heald Pond. I understand he’s a carpenter and a caretaker, like so many Lovell year round residents.

He offered his tools when we may need them and where we can find them when he’s not home. He said my grandfather was so kind and generous while building his first home that he wants to return the favor. His offer was genuine and given with a warm smile.

We have another neighbor, this one right next door. He bought my grandfather’s camp roughly 20 years ago. It was a typical Maine camp but what made it interesting to me was its previous life as a boathouse. The 1950s brought two boathouses to my grandfather’s land that he would occasionally offer to visiting vacationers and family. Our neighbor eventually knocked down the old structure and rebuilt a sturdier home to last the harsh Maine winters. We share a right-of-way with my mom that goes right through his “door yard” - uncomfortably close to his house. Rather than use this old logging road as our driveway with building trucks and large equipment running through, we decided that we would build our own road. It was the right thing to do.

We often see our neighbor watching our progress. We’ve wondered what he and all Slab City Road neighbors feel about building on my grandfather’s open field. It’s a beautiful area - untouched. What does he think of having a neighbor where there wasn’t one before?

Any answer to questioning our new neighbor’s opinion or feelings came with his helping hand. He walked up our new road, said hello, and got to work. Barry and a crew were pouring concrete for the foundation walls that day. Assistance was offered without any promise of reciprocation.

At my grandfather’s memorial I heard different stories of my grandparents’ generosity. Newcomers especially wanted to share how welcome they felt when my grandmother would periodically bring by garden vegetables and fruit when dropping by for a visit. I was told that she once paddled a canoe across the pond to bring fresh raspberries to a couple soon after they bought their summer camp. Small towns can seem intimidating for someone “from away” and these lovely gestures from a Lovell native would feel so welcoming.

And so... the welcoming generosity is offered to the granddaughter and grandson-in-law - two recent newcomers from away.