This is the week of “Windjammer Days” here in Boothbay Harbor. My husband and I have recently arrived for a fiftieth summer of rustic living in our log cabin in Maine. For two retired Vermonters, the view from the porch this afternoon is magical, as historic wooden schooners parade toward their anchorage in our bay. Lake Champlain and the Connecticut River can’t compare. Nor can the “Iowa Great Lakes” of our childhood. Owning the cabin has made us ocean people. Boats aside, we are deeply wedded to the ocean’s drama: to its storms, to the solace of its quiet moments, to the bracing shock of a daily swim.
The length of our drive from Vermont is significant, but finally reaching our destination is among my greatest joys. This year, it was a two-car trip. My husband’s Volkswagen carried our personal items along with the large ceramic pot of herbs we always bring along. A bike hung securely on the back. My EV contained everything else: a bag of books; materials I would use for weaving (a new passion emerging during winter in classes at the Shelburne Craft School); recorders along with a basket of recorder music; and my notebook, pens, and computer for writing. The dog was wedged into a corner of the back seat, his bed half on the floor to save room. We were on our way—to the remarkable place that has always been both intensely familiar and refreshingly new and expansive.
Both of our daughters grew up spending summers in Maine, but now, with time’s passing, they and their families are here for briefer visits. My husband and I have learned how to manage on our own the details of moving in, like using a wheelbarrow to transport that unwieldy pot of herbs from the car to its place on an outdoor patio.
This year for the first time, however, these daughters agreed that one of them should be with us as we unpacked, got settled, and assessed the realities of another summer in Maine. They viewed rocky terrain as a challenge as we unpacked the cars. The grass would need cutting and the gardens would be unruly. We’d have to stock the kitchen. Could we manage what needed managing, like boats? Besides, it would be fun, they both assured us. We happily but cautiously acquiesced. On the day of our drive, my husband went on to Boothbay Harbor, while I detoured through Portland to pick up our daughter Libby at the bus station.
The days with Libby here, at our beck and call, were terrific. She helped that first evening with the carrying, the arranging, and the food shopping. The next day, she ran the lawn mower while her dad weed-whacked. We went on from there to deal with a myriad of other tasks, outside and in.
We all know the cabin intimately. Putting away food in the old kitchen comes naturally. It’s this cabinet for coffee and dry goods; cereal and crackers are stacked on top of the fridge. The large fruit basket sits on the table. Everyone living here over the course of a summer can find what they need. Anyone can put together a meal. To make beds, you pull out sheets from the tall wooden cabinet in the bathroom and blankets from the ancient chest nearby. There are plenty of towels, though they’re a random assortment by now. We are all—oftentimes three generations of us, at home here.
Additional rituals of reconnection include “the walk,” always the same long, hilly route, and always involving whoever is in residence or visiting on a given day. If we make it up the last hill, “Brutality,” we’re fit enough to do it again tomorrow. And the first swim. Imagine my disappointment this year when I had traipsed surefootedly down the path to the dock, tossed the swim ladder over the edge, and heard Libby, only steps behind me, caution, “jellyfish!” I drew back to look, noting that these were not the usual small variety, but the larger and newly troublesome “Lion’s Mane” version. I was stung last year, so we easily decided that waiting would be prudent.
We are all grateful for this familiarity and the sense of routine, shelter and protection. Still, there are challenges. Over the winter, we had extensive caulking done between the logs, our attempt to keep out the driving rain of a next Nor’easter. We have to anticipate the minor damage of mice and squirrels. Yet we never—until this year—have had to consider the possibility of vandalism. The theft early in the spring of our network of old copper piping under the cabin was a most unwelcome development. But so it is in our world today, and we go on.
Libby is back home in Cambridge now. David and I are finding our own rhythms again, of being here at least briefly, as a twosome. He spends mornings at his desk and afternoons on projects or something more enjoyable. Both of us are regular volunteers at the local botanical garden.
For me, days at the cabin offer so much. After walking, I sit for breakfast on the porch. The sun from our eastern exposure has risen high enough by then that the big table there is in the shade.
I pay attention. The wind picks up and the sun on the waves sparkles brightly, as if stars were glistening just below the surface. Now and then a seal appears. Gulls cry out, and osprey too. Occasionally herons fly by, or an eagle.
My weaving area is coming together on a table in the great room. Having just taken a class in “Wild Weaving,” where I learned, among other things, how to tie four sticks into a loom and warp it with twine, I am oriented more broadly. Now my daily explorations of the shore yield rocks or bits of driftwood filled with previously unimagined possibilities. And oddly, every sturdy, well-worn, forked stick appears as a would-be loom.
Then to my desk—and the stacks of books I have brought along, as well as the old favorites that stay the winter here. Among the latter is The Wisdom of the Senses, by Joan Erikson. Leafing through it again, I remember that Erikson closes her marvelous book with thoughts on “the artist’s way.” That way requires, she says, living in tune with one’s work, being open to constant discovery, and being oneself.
How lucky I am to have arrived in Maine!
Mary K. Otto, formerly of Norwich, lives in Shelburne, Vt. Readers may email her at maryotto13@gmail.com.