Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines

SUMMER AND THE POND

by      Louise Dubrule

      The newspapers last week carried an item about a lake in Chile that just flat disappeared. You can make all the jokes you want about how it happened, but the fact is that there was a lake one day and the next day there wasn’t. I can tell you about a pond that disappeared, but this happened in a different way.

    For the first six decades of the 20th century, Lake Carmi was known by one and all as Franklin Pond. It played an important part in our youth, and our memories of summers in Franklin County are tied to the Pond. Even now, we can close our eyes and see the way it was, before it became the Lake Carmi State Park and lost much of its original charm and appeal.

    Franklin Pond lay about thirteen miles from our hometown of Richford, Vermont, close to the Canadian border, and it was reached by a narrow dirt and gravel road. That didn’t stop the families from making their way to the shores where they spread out blankets and unpacked a picnic meal. Our family did this many times after Papa got off work, and our summer suppers were simple affairs of sandwiches, hardboiled eggs, tomato wedges, and whatever sweets Mama had on hand. We’d linger until the sun began its descent to the horizon and the evening breezes cooled us off. Sometimes we’d take off our shoes and wade into the water, but the public areas were difficult to navigate because the squishy sand near the shore was littered with small rocks and bits of broken shells.

    The east and west edges of the Pond were dotted with summer cottages called camps. They were simple frame houses, divided into rough rooms without benefit of finished walls. Floors were either wood or discarded linoleum, and while most had running water, plumbing was rudimentary. The camps were connected by narrow roads that were oiled, and since we all went barefoot, it wasn’t long before our feet were black. Some people from ‘the big cities’ had nice big homes, for the mothers and children spent the whole summer there and the fathers joined them on weekends. Many families from Richford had modest camps and some were willing to rent them out for a week or so for a nominal amount. After she graduated from high school and was working, my sister Simone rented a camp and invited me to spend the week with her. What a wealth of memories those days provided. We were able to go swimming several times every day so that we didn’t ever have to change out of our bathing suits. I was careful to avoid the dragon flies that hovered above the water because we called them ‘darning needles’ and everybody knew they could sew your lips together We ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches or Vienna sausages any time we were hungry; and sleeping on the screened-in porch was special, especially if it rained on the tin roof. In odd moments, Simone worked on writing the great American novel.

    The public side of the Pond had the establishments for tourists and campers. There was a small grocery store that stocked the essentials for easy meals and snacks. There was a large building with a roller skating rink on the left, and we could rent skates to while away an afternoon. The floor was wood, and a fall in the wrong place could leave you with a splinter or two. There was also a counter where you could buy ice cream cones. On the right half of the building there was a bowling alley, but it was nothing fancy….just a couple of alleys and a boy who reset the pins to earn a little spending money.

    The big draw for the young people was the dance pavilion. Every Thursday evening during the season starting after Memorial Day and lasting until Labor Day, there was a dance to live music. A group called The International Swingsters provided the Big Band sound for three hours, and we knew the musicians, for they were neighbors who had normal daytime jobs. The nice part of these dances is that nearly all of us went stag and we learned the latest steps from each other. In the slow dances, we actually held each other; and in the ‘swing’ or ‘jitterbug’ numbers we maintained contact with outstretched hands. There was a refreshment counter at one end, and they sold soft drinks in glass bottles, as well as assorted chips. The best treat was a package of peanuts poured into a bottle of Coke. During intermission, the newly-formed couples walked in the warm night air and watched the fireflies or sat on the little bridges and exchanged tentative kisses. The evening always ended when the band played “Goodnight Ladies.” It all seemed very romantic.

    There was a houseboat on Franklin Pond, and it was a marvel of ingenuity. It was built on a truck chassis with a platform on top, and it was held afloat by fifty-five 55-gallon drums. The driveshaft of the truck was dropped to the power supply for the craft. The little house on top of the platform was host to a number of parties during the summer, providing you knew ‘somebody.’ I didn’t.

    There were row boats, some boats with outboard motors, and canoes on the Pond, and maybe a couple of speed boats that could pull people who tried water skiing, but they weren’t a common thing. It was such an innocent time. Bathing suits were modest one-piece affairs such as something Esther Williams would wear in one of her movies. There were some two-piece suits, but they were mostly homemade from flowered chintz, and the bottoms had little skirts that floated comically behind you. Rubber bathing caps kept your hair from smelling like dead fish, and the best ones looked as though they were covered with flowers. The boys wore trunks that came halfway to the knee or neat briefs with a belt, and some older men like Papa still wore the black wool maillot suits of the 1930s. There were no Speedos, no bikinis, no belly button rings.

    Today, Lake Carmi is a lovely place for a safe family outing, but it’s a generic State Park. Gone are the refreshment stands, the bowling alley, and the roller rink. Gone is the character of the bygone era. Gone is the pavilion where Moe and I first danced to “Green Eyes” and fell in love. Luckily for us and those of our generation, the good memories remain.

 

Késsinnimek - Roots - Racines
Copyright © 2003 & 2004 & 2005 & 2006 & 2007 Norm Léveillée
© Tous droits réservés
Created 1 Feb 2003