Great Pond, Belgrade
I grew up spending my summers at my grandparent’s “summer home” in Belgrade, Maine. Foster’s Point to be exact. One moment you’re on a paved main road driving through Belgrade and the next you’ve turned right and up a dirt path, straight into the woods. But what I remember from when I was little is different from what I’ve noticed my last two summers there.
We’d slowly make our way down the thin one lane dirt road to the house, making comments about the drop off on either side, lined with dense trees. If you were to look up expecting to be greeted by a clear blue sky, you’d be disappointed. The sky was barely visible but you could see rays of light shining through the vibrant green leaves. The road had an entirely different feel at night, and for a seven year old it was absolutely terrifying. It gave the feeling of being trapped by the trees, of being surrounded by only darkness. Driving down the road thirteen years later after leaving a horror movie with your family was a different kind of terrifying that resulted in lots of yelling, jumping, and fights over what kind of animal just skittered in front of the car. The road is one of the only things that has remained constant.
In the summer there was always just the slightest breeze to keep you comfortable until the rain that was sure to follow in the evening. I learned early on that taking walks down the dirt road were better in the early morning than in the late evening if you didn’t want to constantly swat insects away from your face. I wish that I had appreciated those walks when I was younger. The walk to the point was always interesting, but only when I look back on it now. There were rocks to kick, lichen to admire, blueberries to pick, houses on the right, endless trees to the left. Veering off the path to walk through the trees was different because there was no path. No one walked through the trees on the left. There were ticks, ditches to fall into, unseen roots waiting to be tripped over, fallen trees waiting to be climbed over, and hidden blueberry bushes scattered throughout the woods.
From what I remember, the point used to be accessible.
There wasn’t a real difference from walking out the back door of the house and down to the water, except for the view. And if the water was low enough you could see a line of rocks leading straight to Blueberry Island. But there’s a house there now. Last time I took a walk to the point a car was parked there. And the walk to and back from the point isn’t so spectacular anymore. The trees are gone. They’ve cleared out most of the forest. My cousin accidentally ran through the clearing (not knowing it was private property) and he said it’s much larger than I imagined it to be. I’m not sure what it’s for but some people assume more houses, others are thinking some sort of parking lot or a paved road. The walk to the point, now a parking spot, is now lined with houses and water on the right, and an empty area once occupied by an abundance of trees, broken branches from heavy snowfall, soft ground to sink into, and plants I still don’t know the name of, and some plastic bags and bottles tucked away behind fallen trees and rocks next to the road. I don’t ever recall seeing this much plastic when I was little. But then again, when I was really little I thought that the fuel sitting on the water was “pretty” because of the rainbow it would make.
Blueberry Island. The bushes were so full that you could touch a blueberry bush and the small wild Maine blueberries would fall straight into your metal pail. We always made sure to leave enough on the bushes for next year. But I suppose we weren’t the only people who had tied our canoes to the trees and climbed over the steep edge of the tiny island for a snack later. This past year, I didn’t pick any blueberries because I couldn’t find any. And the few that I did find, I left on the bush in hopes that maybe next year there would be more and that the blueberries could find a home on the island again. I lost hope for Blueberry Hill. My family didn’t even bother going to visit after we heard that it was over picked. Nothing left. Bare blueberry bushes.
Until the last three summers when I started going back to the house on Foster’s Point, I wondered what happened in all the years that I was away. But now I know. The land was used. Not properly cared for– just used. But I wonder, has it always been like this?
