Essays by Robert Kimber, Wesley McNair and Bill Roorbach
Tilbury House 2004
All you need is right here around you
What a small gem of a book A Place on Water is. Nature literature lovers will savor it, not wanting it to end. Well, in a sense, it doesn’t–an “idyll,” as author Kimber titles his essay, can live on and on, real or imagined. This reviewer read the book twice, not wanting to leave the world of these hand-hewn camps and pondside pursuits of the three masterful authors.
Not only do writers Kimber, McNair and Roorbach blissfully swim together at Maine’s Drury Pond each summer (flanked by dogs, of course) and share a beer and conversation on porches there, they have crafted three perfect essays about their beloved pond, joining them as beautifully as dovetail joints.
Each cluster of reflections and tales has a different feel. Kimber’s is like a stone skipping across water–lively yet smooth and elegant. McNair is smooth boards and some rougher ones, placed in short and longer sections. His weaves like the curving, grassy lane to his camp, bringing new surprises as it winds. Roorbach, ever the master of shaping a story into slow motion, hops like a bird, but settles in for a good long perch on a branch (well, stuck in muck — but more about that later). There is, in fact, a double-crested cormorant that makes an appearance, curiously sitting high in a tree for a long time, almost mistaken for a goose.
McNair’s essay title, “Ship, Dream, Pond, Talk,” about sums up the cornerstone themes–times spent with one another and spouses paddling, appreciating, swimming, and conversing at their respective camps and docks. There is a lot of easygoing swimming–which McNair describes as “moving across the top of the fish’s sky”–for pleasure, not workouts.
Each writer’s infatuation with the landscape is palpable. Kimber describes becoming smitten with the place: “The pond is getting into your blood. The prospect of living without the pond in your life is too awful to contemplate. Finally, you realize you’re in love.”
The appreciation for their respective camps, despite leaking roofs and no electricity in one, is wonderfully graphic. The very tall McNair purchases a sweet cottage that neighbor Kimber calls “built by the Seven Dwarfs.” Another friend of McNair’s says of the place, `It’s like a ship,’ meaning trim and compact.
Moving through each room in his essay, McNair writes, “The gas lamp above the bed is perfectly situated for reading; nearby the lamp is a hook for your glasses when you’re ready for sleep, and a small screw to hang your watch on. Lying here above the ship’s hold, you have the distinct feeling of being held.”
You can feel the sense of place, of wood and stone’s textures and the lessons a dwelling offers: “The stones say the same thing the intimate spaces of our camp say: What you require in your life is less complicated than you thought. They say, All you need is right here around you.”
All three authors know that the pond teaches them things all the time. Roorbach learns a lesson from the pond’s unnavigable outlet brook as he and his wife try to canoe in without bothering his resident buddies (the Roorbachs do not own a camp here). His saga of pushing over hummocks and tree stumps is written with his wry sense of self-deprecating humor. He soon finds himself sinking into the mud up to his chin, until he mightily pulls and grunts his way out nearly capsizing his wife, both wracked with laughter. They get 15 yards from the pond before giving up and will never try that route again.
Roorbach, as he did in his book Temple Stream, proves he can change tempo flawlessly, shifting from details of animals and habitat to people’s unique qualities through snippets of conversation peppered with humor. He conveys the social treasures the pond holds as it unites his co-author friends again and again for swimming, conversing and simply being — and for reminding them of the unspoiled and undeveloped. Maybe the pond’s name should have been fictional to make it stay so. Then again, it is wonderfully small.
A resident of Connecticut when she isn’t in Maine, Linda Hedman Beyus is a frequent contributor to Working Waterfront.