Maine: The Way Life USED to Be

I grew up in one of the small, poor, rural towns in eastern Maine. Summer vacations for me and my brothers consisted of spending days either on our grandfather's lobster boat, acting an unofficial "sternman" or digging clams. This was not for recreation, as the money was necessary for the late-August trip to Ellsworth to shop for school clothes. We worked side-by-side with our mother, who was a single parent-not by choice like many of today's celebrities-but because my father had drowned one day while working on his outboard motor.

We went to bed by nine o'clock and rose before dawn. We packed a lunch, and dressed in warm clothes that would see us through the early morning hours. We carried a can of insect repellant and a cap to keep the mosquitoes and black flies away.

The sun would just be peeking from between the pink, orange, yellow, and purple sky, as my grandfather would haul in the skiff and load it with a bucket of bait and a can of gasoline. Everything was damp, but it didn't matter, as there was no time to sit down.

He moored his boat in a quiet little cove that was owned by a wealthy family from Massachusetts. My grandfather had been caretaker of their summer "cottage" for many years, and had a multi-generation relationship with the family. So we were allowed to use the cove almost as if it was ours-had deeded access for as long as my grandparents were alive.

My grandfather kept his traps there, his bait shed, and more his boats for decades. My family camped, picnicked, swam, and played there for as long as I can remember. My brothers and I fought, played, and grew up there-from late May to late September, this was our life. The little cove was unchanged, undeveloped, and undamaged by the time and experiences we had there.

My grandfather died. Years have gone by since then. I moved away, but not so far away that I couldn't visit and reminisce. I even had the opportunity to take my son there on a couple of occasions. One of my brothers even became a fisherman and moored his boat there in the little cove for several years. But in late 2000, my grandmother died. The new owners of the property put it all up for sale-in lots selling for $100,000-plus thousand dollars each-and demanded that my brother move his boat to another mooring.

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