Who's Going Ashore?
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By: Lorelei Sieja
"Turn here," Mother said, a note of panic in her voice. "It looks very familiar."
Dad muttered something about having only been down that road twice already. We had been traveling for twenty-one hours non-stop: two parents, five children, a dog, and more than enough luggage for three weeks of fun-filled family vacation. The idea to travel to Maine to Mom's childhood camp had seemed like such fun last January, but as we tried one windy dirt road after another through the rolling White Mountains at the northern end of the Appalachians with the evening fog sneaking in, we began to wonder if it had only existed in her imagination.
"Stop! Turn there! That's the road to Charles' Beach!" Mom said. There were tears in her eyes. I wondered if they were tears of joy or relief. Dad turned Barnabus, our trusty '70 Chevy van, down the mostly washed-out gravel road. Dense pines swallowed us in their damp pitchy gloom. Prinz, the dog, perhaps sensing his confinement was near an end, set up to do some serious whining. Suddenly a chain-link gate blocked our path.
Dad glared at Mom, not saying a word. Mom clapped her hands and giggled! I had never seen her like this- like a kid at Christmas.
"C'mon, kids! We walk from here," she cheered. She bolted from the car, left the road around the gate, then dashed through the woods and headed downhill. We followed her, all but Dad. He took his time to clean and refill his pipe, a ritual that would keep him busy for the next ten minutes or so. When he caught up to us, he had thoughtfully rummaged through the car to bring a flashlight, the dog, and a glass of port wine. The tension lines were gone from his face. Dad- the -Conqueror, always determined to cover just one more mile, was gone. Now he was Dad-on-Vacation. The woods ended abruptly at a narrow sandy beach on Abram's Pond. The sun was sinking behind the western hills and already the first evening star was visible, but we children were too tired to wish for anything.
Mom cupped her hands to either side of her mouth and taking a deep breath shouted, "Forica!" After several moments, she called "Fo-or-i-ca-a-a!" again.
Dad sat on a convenient granite rock, sipping the wine and enjoying his pipe. He seemed to see nothing strange about his bride of twenty years.
I was about to ask Mom what she was doing, when we heard a faint answering call from across the pond, "Jo-o-oh- seph!"
Mom shouted, "Benedict!"
The echo returned, "Wainwright!"
After a short pause, the echo and Mom shouted together, "Junior!"
Just then we could see a boat emerge from the evening mists, slowly rowing towards us. Mom kicked off her shoes, dove into the cold, clear water, and swam to the boat.
"Hello, Mom! It's so good to see you," my mom sputtered.
Grandmother continued to row. It was like poetry in motion, the way the seventy year old woman handled her Old-Towne canoe. She gave one last thrust and the bow slid up on the sand. Drawing in the oars, she climbed out and pulled it up a little farther. I looked skeptically at the antiquated boat. It was tiny and narrow. It would never hold us all.
Mom got out of the water and shook herself. She kissed her mother on the cheek, trying not to drip too much. "Mom, I've missed you so!" she said.
"Janny, Janny. You never could stay out of the water," grandmother clucked. It seemed funny to hear Mom being reprimanded just like one of us kids.
Mom began to sort us into two groups- those who would go over with her now, and those who would join in the next group. Being one of the younger kids, I got to go over first. The boys had to wait behind with Dad, to bring our stuff down from the car. Mom begged to row. Grandmother (she ordered us to call her "Ed") sat in back, with my little sister, Henry. I sat in the bow and held a hand over the side of the boat. The cold water, smooth like jello, parted cleanly into two pieces by the boat and swirled back together behind us. The boat made rhythmic pulls, gently lulling... I was almost asleep when the stillness was shattered by a ghostly scream. I jumped, nearly tipping the boat. "What was that?"
Mom laughed. "Those are loons," she said, as if that explained it. Pulling in the oars, she cupped hands to her mouth again, this time imitating the eery call. The loon answered, swimming close enough for us to just barely see him through the mist. He looked a bit like a duck, only bigger. He called again, then dove under the water.
"There's a pair of loons that nest on the island every summer," Mom said. "They've just come to welcome me back."
The island at last separated itself from the shoreline. It was a little, round Eden planted on granite rock, sprouting in the middle of the pond. Light flickered from a cabin window, smoke spiraled from the chimney, and cousins danced on the rocks cheering us onward. My stomach growled. I hoped that something good was cooking on that campfire. Mom expertly guided the antique canoe around mammoth granite boulders into a small cove. The boat rubbed against old rubber tires as Mom threw the mooring rope to a cousin. She climbed out onto a rock and extended a hand to her mother. Ed scoffed at her and scrambled out on her own. Mom hugged each cousin in turn, then hugged her thorny mother again and dashed into the cabin.
I hadn't seen my cousins in ages and didn't remember them at all. "Hello," I said dutifully, hoping that would suffice for now. One cousin grabbed my older sister, Pickles, by the arm, and hauled her into the cabin, chattering excitedly. I took Henry's hand to follow the crowd. We climbed wobbly wooden stairs and entered the square little cabin.
My Aunt Lizzy filled the room. "Welcome, welcome all!" she proclaimed with a flourish. Her arms swept an arc in the air. The red and black satin caftan she wore fluttered gracefully. "Our travelers have arrived! Now Janny, do sit down and rest, dear. Anne-dear, get your aunt something to drink. Come, come children. Sit-sit! We will eat as soon as your father arrives."
She directed traffic. She organized the chores and commanded us all. The tiny table was set with as many place settings as it could hold- four. The adults would have the table. The cousins perched on beds and trunks around the tiny cabin.
The smells were fabulous. My stomach growled louder. Henry laid her head in my lap, too tired to eat.
Aunt Lizzy was talking again. She had a slightly foreign sounding accent, from Boston or Greece. "Janny-dear. Tomorrow I thought we would do privy detail, then unpack your things. The next day we should go to Sullivan, to that wonderful spot on the ocean. We'll bring back clams and have a clambake. Doesn't that sound nice?"
Aunt Lizzy was older than my mother by four years.
Mom just nodded meekly.
"I see the men!" Aunt Lizzy proclaimed. I giggled. She made that word "men" sound like royalty. They were only my father and brothers.
"Do come in! Welcome, Ray-dear," she said, enveloping my dad in a red satin sleeve and giving him a peck on the cheek. "How good of you to come." She passed him a glass of something. It looked like water, but smelled like licorice. He seemed pleased and thanked her.
All of a sudden the little cabin was crowded. The boys were wrestling, the cousins were cheering them on, and mosquitoes were biting everywhere.
Mom started to dish up the plates for dinner. Aunt Lizzy had prepared a gourmet meal on the ancient pot-bellied wood stove. It smelled wonderful. It looked like chicken, salad, green beans and rolls. The chicken had lemon and parsley on it. The salad had olives and little lumps of Feta cheese on it. I took my plate, easing Henry's head off my lap and onto a pillow.
"Jan-dear, wait," ordered Aunt Lizzy. "We simply must do something about all these mosquitoes before we can enjoy the meal!"
Ed perked up. "There are no mosquitoes on my island," she stated firmly.
"Yes, of course Mom-dear," Aunt Lizzy said. "Just the same, I'll spray some Raid." And so saying, she waved a huge can of noxious smelling aerosol back and forth across the room. Mom said something about not breathing to us kids, while Ed insisted there were no mosquitoes. The bugs didn't seem to be biting her, either. Perhaps they couldn't get through her tough, weathered skin.
The Raid was effective, for bodies of wilted bugs descended like rain on us all- covering our hair and food. The flame in the kerosene lamp flickered and fizzled, cremating bugs. The boys' incessant wrestling stopped as both were gagging. Mom opened the windows and doors to let out the stench.
"The screens are full of holes," Cousin Anthanacius pointed out.
"No bug in his right mind would come in here tonight," Mom answered.
"There are no mosquitoes on my island," Ed declared.
"Let's eat," said Aunt Lizzy.
I inspected my chicken. It was hard to see what was parsley and what was mosquitoes in the dim lamp light. "Mom, my chicken's covered-" I began.
"Eat it," Mom said.
I took a bite. It was dry and spicy. I chewed, trying not to think about the mosquitoes, but it wouldn't go down when I swallowed. Unobserved, I reached for my dad's glass and took a sip. The chicken drowned in some sweet-smelling water that burned on the way down. I took another bite and another sip. When I put Dad's glass back, Aunt Lizzy refilled it. Somehow, with the help of Dad's beverage, I managed to eat all my food. After a while it tasted pretty good. That was the first of many memories of Maine. We were to return to the island camp every summer after that, although my mother did most of the cooking. I took my husband there on our honeymoon. And I went back there twelve years ago to bury my Aunt Lizzy. It's hard to think of the island now, without my Aunt. She never stayed long when she came. She would take us by storm, with gifts of wine and food. We would feast like kings and then when she left, life would be quiet and peaceful again.
The memories, both joyous and sad, have helped to shape the person I have become. Now my cousins and I have children of our own. We plan to reunite on the island this summer. What memories will our children make? How will the island, now a little smaller and a little older, appear to our younger generation? The cabin has gone through some much needed improvements- we have a gas refrigerator, and an old gas stove. We added a bunkhouse to replace the tent the nine cousins once shared. But my children will have to meet an island minus Aunt Lizzy.
We will have to organize an "Aunt Lizzy Day." Starting with privy detail, then a trip to her favorite ocean spot at Sullivan Harbor, we will end with Greek lemon chicken and Ouzo. Somehow, though, I have never been able to duplicate her wonderful meal. There must be some missing ingredient not listed in the cookbooks.
Could it be the mosquitoes?
