Jury Rigging the Summer Camp

Maine has the highest percentage of second homes in the country according to new U.S Census figures. Which means that a lot of people spent last weekend opening up camps, cottages and summer homes on Maine’s islands, lakes, ponds, rivers and mountainsides following the long siege of winter.

The following is a quick tour of the simple island life. We take the new Vinalhaven ferry across Penobscot Bay after inching the car along in the line that snakes around the D.O.T. parking lot. Like latter day Joads, we are piled high with a repaired mower, a weed whacker, a chainsaw, plants, linens, pantry staples, cleaning supplies, a dog and a full measure of household sturm und drang. The cats were left behind, but apart from them, we have filled every available cubit of space inside the vehicle and on its roof.

Although our faithful island plumber has already turned on the water, our team of two divides to conquer. The first chore on arrival is to prostrate myself like a devotee in front of the shrine of the hot water heater in order to light the pilot. With this accomplished, modern life begins to be possible. Next I carefully descend the dark stairs to the remote recesses of the cellar, amid the rustle of scurrying feet (not mine), to turn on the power and listen to the piercing chirps of the fire alarms alerting you to their dead batteries that need to be replaced so I can hear myself think.

Meanwhile, the mowing cannot wait another minute—already we can see the grass becoming taller and denser, which will soon choke the life from both Mr. Briggs and Mr. Stratton, whose sluggish blue coughs are no match for such vigorous spring verdure. But first I must mow the path to the dug well, which needs to be aerated before even a grown man can drink and also to snake a path over the rocks to the outhouse nested under the spruce so a grown man can think. At least this year the coons have not used the well house as a privy, nor the privy as a nursery.

Now with basic systems up and running, I loyally return to the cottage to help resurrect the randomly assembled furniture by removing their winter shrouds. The light streaming in through the windows reveals dead bodies of flies piled high along windowsills, which I am instructed to immediately vacuum before domestic harmony can prevail. Meanwhile as the sun climbs higher, I watch the field of grass growing taller outside my prison walls, which means the mower will choke on the luxuriant growth before I can get there. Ah, and then the grass will also need to be raked to add to the list of dispiriting chores that grows longer everywhere I turn. Listen!, the grass is laughing at you.

But tradition requires we attend first to the annual raising of the flagpole and the flag ceremony. But to excavate the flagpole, the porch furniture must be deployed, which means finding the cushions that have been stowed away so nesting mink cannot wreak their havoc on them. But where, oh, where did we think to hide them in order to outfox these clever mustelids? Oh, never mind.

Next the waterfront calls, which involves launching the dinghy so the outhaul can be deployed. But before the dinghy can be launched, the shed has to be emptied, but before the shed can be emptied, the bikes have to be removed, but before the bikes can be removed, the trash bins need relocating. But before the trash bins can be relocated, I notice the chore that you did not complete last fall before it was time to run for the last boat, so I must now go to the recycling station. But before Ican go to the recycling station, I have to unload the rest of the car, but before I can unload the rest of the car, I have to turn on the refrigerator to put away the food now dripping in the coolers, but before I turn on the refrigerator, I have to clean it, but before I can clean it, I have to get sponges and vinegar spray, but before I can get the cleaning implements, I must remove the mouse guard covers from the pantry shelves, but before I can remove the mouse guards, I have to find the right sized screwdriver.

My kingdom for a screwdriver!

Philip Conkling is president of the Island Institute in Rockland, Maine.