While I have been following the news today, I thought I would post about the family cabin in Maine before returning to reality. The Beaver Shores Club started off as a branch office for a logging company, the cabin being built in the early 1900s. My grandfather, still a teenager, pooled his resources with a bunch of friends and family members from Framingham, Massachusetts and bought the cabin in 1926. It was a rustic, two room building with a wide porch, and no electricity or plumbing. It sported a white paint job until recently, when it was outfitted with a pretty green metal roof and given a yellow preservative stain. Here's what the building looks like, viewed from the dock:
As you can see, the cabin is right on the shore of the 'great pond'- step off the porch and you are in the water:
While the most rustic building in the vicinity, it has the choicest site- new buildings have to be two hundred feet from the water. Beaver Shores Club actually predates the great pond, which was formed by the damming of a local tributary to the mighty Kennebec River to provide drinking water for the local communities. It and a handful of older camps have been grandfathered in, most of them owned by families from nearby towns or other Framingham families who decided to follow in my the tradition of my grandfather and his cohort.
The panoramic view from the front porch never fails to stir my heart:
It was hear that my siblings and I, like our aunts, uncles, and cousins, learned how to rough it- to split logs for the stove, to transport potable water five miles down the road from a spring, to handle boats. More importantly, it was where we learned to associate eerie late-night cries with the local loons, to see stars invisible in our New York skies, to live according to nature's schedule- up with the sun, asleep not too much later than sundown. It is a beautiful place, a perfect place for city folk to gain an appreciation for rurality.