Holding Down the Pond/KS

"Holding Down the Pond"

*Introduction*

I was born in Vermont, went to school 1st-12th grades in Connecticut,
and attended college in southern Maine, and now Massachusetts. However,
my home, or rather, our "Homestead," is at Unity Pond in the central part of Maine. My father's family lived in the tiny town of Pittsfield for
over 6 generations. My grandfather was a history teacher- turned
headmaster of the local high school (Maine Central Institute) and my
aunt now has two daughters attending the local schools as she herself
did and where her own aunt taught Home Economics. While my Dad
relocated to Connecticut to develop his own teaching profession, he
has returned to "camp" every summer. My aunts now runs "The Big Camp", long
occupied by my grandmother in curlers and a fluffy pink or blue robe,
and my grandfather after school in his suit and large wingtips. My
Dad, before he was married made a deal with my grandmother that if he
painted her camp, she would give him the boat house. Since then it
has grown and developed into a family size summer home, which, a few
years back, even gained the privilege of an indoor, gas toilet!

During the winter I don many layers of clothing, hang the wind chimes,
and hold a steaming cup of black coffee, trying to recreate the sounds
and feel of "Holding Down the Pond." My cats run and play amongst the
brown oak leaves as I breath the cold frosty air. It is a pleasant,
meditative sort of ritual for me, but it is not "Holding Down the
Pond". Two things are missing: The Pond, and the many memories of
shared life and place.

*Rituals of Place Illustrate Community*

The wet pine needles stick to my bare feet as I carefully maneuver
along the rain soaked planks to the outhouse, common shelter to
mourning dove, dock spiders, and hungry mosquitoes. I narrowly avoid
a slimy orange slug as I make the last navigation to the door, from
planks, to rocks, to the safety of the wooden floor. It is barely
light, so I leave the door ajar to prevent it's creak from alerting
the neighborhood to my whereabouts. As I relieve myself from a long
night trapped in my loft bedroom without the indoor benefits of
plumbing, I let out a sigh and head towards the lakeside screen door.
Always thinking, I want to avoid waking my folks by using the back
door adjacent to their sleeping quarters. Even footsteps past their
room might awaken them too early, as our open floor plan does little
to hide sounds.

Skipping by the dutiful challenge of entering the camp, I tiptoe
through the wet grass remembering last nights tapping on the tar paper
roof. Dad got some old pots again to catch the leaks so I won't be
surprised later today when I see him up on the roof with his tool belt
adjusting the silver ladder to patch the shingles. One of these years
we will have to do it right, but for now the patch occupies the
occasional summer morning. As I navigate the oily puddle in the low
spot near where my father parks his wagon, then careful not to stub my
toe on the roots of the nearby trees, I pause in a spot of grass, and
look up at the morning pond.

The light is hinting at day break, reflecting its pinkness against the
morning fog which rolls to the north end of our cove, near The Stream.
I am glad to have my sweatshirt on for air is still nippy. I smile
to myself as I refrain from waking up my sisters to show them the
humongous beach ball which obviously escaped from the busy end of the
lake. We will have to take the canoe and recover it shortly. A
slight breeze blows, jangling the plexi-glass clapper against the
large hollow pipes on our homemade wind chimes. I realize all of a
sudden that my feet are cold and jump to the wooden steps to warm them
up.

When my feet are finally dry, I brush the pine needles from them,
knowing full well that tracking them in will only make my sweeping
chore more aggravating later. My sisters and I take turns sweeping
the camp after breakfast, but we never seem to get it spotless. No
matter how many times over, there is still more sand to be found in
our living room, the one with salad oil stained from one of the huge
spaghetti dinners my dad put on for family and neighbors. However, as
no one is up yet, I skip over the salad oil stain and climb as quietly
as possible back into the loft to my bed to warm my feet until Dad
gets up to make the coffee.

A familiar hack is heard next door and we know that Grampy is up and
sitting outside in front of the meditative pond. This is Dad's queue
to get up. He tiptoes through the camp so as not to wake my step
mother. Happily for me, he was kind enough to squeak the outhouse
door so I would know he was up, then blow his nose from tissues stored
on the refrigerator so I would know he was back. These days making
coffee gets delayed more than normal since we have taken to grinding
the beans right before brewing, but back in those days I would hear
the pop of the plastic cover coming off the coffee canister, and hear
the water from the kitchen sink filling the old metal percolator
acquired from a neighbor at some auction or tag sale recognizable, as
the brew adjuster is permanently welded at the Super Extra Strong end
of the scale.. As the coffee brews, Dad adjourns to the porch, book
in hand to continue the adventures he left off the night before from
his newest find at the Pittsfield Public Library.

Still in my shorts and sweatshirt, I climb to the end of the bed, step
down a few rungs of my ladder, grasp the rafter in front of me, and
let myself down to the bottom wooden rung. Dad is so handy, I
briefly remember all the plans that went into designing this loft
ladder, but re-focus on my morning ritual. The brewing coffee has
slowed it's loud rumble to a quieter whisper. The loud rumble was
sure to wake even the loudest sleepers next door, except my stepmother
But in it's whisper, I pull two cups from the handmade wooden
cabinets and place them on the counter at the pass through window. To
my Dad I hand one of the soft grey-green cups acquired from next door,
and for myself, and my new found coffee habit, I pull the infamous
"Coffee Hound." The Coffee Hound is as big as the ones you nowadays
find in coffee houses and has measurement labels clearly painted with
Down East Yankee humor. My Dad gets a chuckle, remembering the days
when I would only take the cold remnants of coffee filled to the brim
with milk.

I pass Dad his deep black coffee, and pad around to the porch. We
know we have a responsibility to take care of and head down the front
steps to find chairs. We pass on the chaises at this time of day and
reach for the old green webbed folding lawn chairs. The worn edges
are a bit scratchy on my bare legs, so I pull my knees to my chest,
and prop my feet on the metal frame. The coffee keeps my hands warm
as I attempt to open my eyes in case of neighborly visits. Every so
often I hear stirring movements on the next porch, my grandfather's
hacking smokers' cough, or the gentle flip-flip-flip of my ski
instructor Ellery's paddle boat as he and his wife Roseann pass
through our view heading to his brother's camp. My heart aches as I
long for the days when we actually spent evenings together laughing
and sharing stories. Then I remember that they like to bring up the
summer they tried to set me up with their nephew, and I smile and wave
sleepily as they pass by.

Ellery's uncle Gerry, good ole Gerry from next door steps outside to
examine the day. I remember days gone by of chasing my cousins up the
camp road to keep in the fun. Gerry would yell to me, "Sandy! Peggy!
Kate!(trying to get it right) You chasin' the boys?" "No I'd holler
back, embarrassed, they're my cousins!" "Peggy! Sandy! Kate! (he'd
try again, now teasing me more than forgetful) what are you gunna do
when you catch them boys?" "Nothing," I'd holler back, exasperated for
this man thinking their was mischief going on. And he would give in,
his pot belly shaking, white hair still in place, laughing his
familiar words, "Tha' be good! Tha' be good!"

Coming back to where I sit perched, lawn chair balanced between
familiar tree roots and larger stones, I giggle to myself . My
grandfather has joined us, as has another neighbor, Mrs. Sonja
Bartlett, still capable of breaking through the shyness habits to
visit. But we are all relatively quiet. Two of them whisper stories
of those away from the lake, while I look with soft eyes at the glassy
lake. This is my favorite time of morning. My little cousin comes
bounding over, disturbing our ritual and questions the meaning of our
complacent sitting. My Dad gets a mildly indignant look on his face
which queues us to story time. He proclaims that we are Holding Down
the Pond! It is our sworn duty to sit here and make sure that it
doesn't go anywhere. We have to make sure it will be available
tomorrow and for the next generation for swimming, skiing, boating,
and bird-watching.

That was 15 years ago. Today I call my stepmother to ask her for her
own recollection of details about the ritual of Holding Down the Pond.
First she tells me about another ritual called The Spider Patrol.
However, this one alludes me. Just as she was not around back in the
days of Grammy Stanley making honey toast from her 1940's broiler
oven, or for afternoon anchovies on Ritz crackers when my grandfather
brought the MCI faculty down to the lake for hors d'oeuvres. However
she clearly remembers not only the salad oil stain on the living room
floor, but that very day it happened, a rainy 4th of July weekend when
we had my Dad's Uncle George over, along with Auntie, my cousins, and
our neighbor Willie, who always won the spaghetti eating contests. If
I recall correctly it was Uncle George, sitting in one of the cold
metal folding chairs that managed to spill the oil on the floor. I am
not sure how it happened, but just remember a minor uproar that echoed
every time I stepped over it to climb my ladder to the loft.

My stepmother laughs as I ask her about these rituals and memories.
"Holding Down the Pond? It's just about sitting in front of the pond
and being quiet!" We share this sleepy morning with familiar faces,
voices, and place. Over the years percolators change (today's groans
instead of rumbling) as does the name of the toddler who bounds eagerly
next door to visit, much too awake for the likes of the older set, who just
wants to be left in early morning peace, Holding Down the Pond.

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