Maine lake

I went to a small town in southwest Maine on Monday to say goodbye to my grandfather's lake house. It's a town that experienced a nearby fire in 1947 that burned a lot of the surrounding trees into the lake. My fishing line would get caught on logs way more than I'd catch a sunfish or pickerel.

When I was little, trips to the lake meant I'd be buying penny candy from a store that was part of a 19th century village nearby. I'd also always buy extra sharp cheddar cheese and a huge dill pickle from a wooden barrel for my dad.

So it was hard to say goodbye to the house, but it was something that needed to happen. I'm lucky I had so many week-long vacations and weekends swimming in Granny Kent Pond, riding around in my dad's speed boat, and singing WWII songs with my grandfather, aunts, uncles, and cousins out on the porch. I'd love for the people who buy the place to know that it was one guy who built the barn, the boathouse, the shed, added extra rooms, and so on. They'd probably like to know that the bell in front of the house came from my great aunt's hotel in Maryland and that we'd ring it at the passing parade of boats on July 4th. It's the weird genealogist historian in me that thinks there should be a book on every house that exists to pass from owner to owner with a chronology of additions, events, and so on. I think that would be excellent.