A short story/ journal published with permission from the author:

An Evening at Alden Camps

            It has gotten windy; East Lake, Glimmerglass this afternoon, is chopped by swells progressing relentlessly south until they lap the rocks below our cabin porch.  Within earshot a motor starts up- a fisher believing the incoming front brings a change of luck as well as a change of wealth.  Within nose shot a fire burns in some guest’s Cherub No. 10 Wood Stove (patented 1881). 

            Sitting on our porch, I notice the paint on the side arms of my rocker is wearing as generations of hands have rested (or drummed or fiddled or written), revealing former color choices.  I imagine the bottoms that have rocked the evening in this chair through its successive green, blue, and white periods: the boy holding his dog, the grandmother knitting, the fisher hoping- vowing- tomorrow will be the day.

            Beside me, Carol prefers the solid footing, if not the long history, of a white resin chair.  She is intent on her third book, a mystery whose author knows the Maine woods well.  It was dispiriting when, the day before we left home, she pulled that hip muscle.  She took up the cane she had forgone so long and mentally cancelled the woodland hikes we both enjoyed.  But by limiting her trips to the camp dining room to supper, she has been mending steadily.  I leave her each morning with her cold cereal and walk along to my hot toast, eggs, and sausage.  And I pick up a fisherman’s lunch for her.  She has decided if she needs to recuperate, this is a pleasant place to do it. 

            Bubba traipses by on his 24 toes and purrs adieu to each cabin as he heads home to his canned supper.  Reluctantly, he abandons his post beside the chipmunk hole hoping- vowing- tomorrow will be the day.