Ayuh

Our home was in Bedford, NY, a small town forty miles or so north of New York City. I had three brothers, Davie, Far and Rob who were 15, 13 and 11 years older than me respectively. My grandparents were our neighbors. Olwyn, who had emigrated from England with her son, John, lived with my grandparents. John was a year and a half older than me and was like a fourth brother. We traveled as a family, usually in two cars because there were so many of us.

The Laidlaw men - Me, Rob, Dad, Far and Davie at Cataumet 1948

Davie & Me 1948

I don't remember Cataumet, Massachusetts well. I was too young. My grandparents had what should best be called a compound there - a couple of houses, a dock, boats, a tennis court, the works. I've seen the pictures and know the geographic names of the area, but my memories of Cataumet are

Cataumet

Dad & Me 1948

basically as a stopping off point for summer-long vacations elsewhere.

As a child, I could never understand why we didn't just stay at Cataumet. Turns out that my grandparents had income property that was taken by eminent domain by the State of Texas and they needed to rent the Cataumet complex to help make ends meet. Some of the rental income paid for summers in Maine, Martha's Vineyard, Maine, Block Island, Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket, and Maine. Notice the recurring Maine theme. So my first travel memories are of summers spent by the New England seashores.

It is fitting that I prepared for the summer heat today by scrounging around the attic for my plastic bin of t-shirts. They needed to be washed, or course, to get rid of the attic smell. I have two types of t-shirts, the presentable ones and the ones I wouldn't get caught wearing anyplace except the backyard. One of my favorite semi-presentable ones has the shape of the state of Maine on the front, made up of town's names. In the middle of the design is the word "Ayuh" in a much bigger, bolder font.

If you've been to Maine, you know the pronunciation and meaning of "Ayuh." If you haven't been to Maine, go there. My earliest summertime memories are of Blue Hill. It must have been 1950 or 1951. Blue Hill is located on the coast about mid-way "down east" between Penobscot Bay and Acadia National Park. The drive to Maine from New York was long and circuitous, especially once you crossed the border into Maine. I can't remember how far the Maine Turnpike stretched in those days; it wasn't far, maybe up to Portland. Most of the time was spent on Route 1, through towns like Bath, Wiscasset, Waldoboro, Camden, Belfast, and Bucksport. Every year, we made the same pit stops along the way. Wiscasset and Belfast were my two favorites. Wiscasset because of the lobster rolls and the hulls of the old wooden schooners rotting away on the tidal bank, Belfast because of Perry's Nut House, a quirky gourmet store near the Route 1 bridge. My grandmother always bought Guava jelly there. I personally hated the stuff, but the store was fun and had large, carved, wooden animals. I remember the smell of the pine trees as we drove, recaptured over the years by the little souvenir pine needle pillows I had bought as a kid.

We lived in a house right on Blue Hill Mountain, not far from the trail that led up to the summit. And climb the mountain we did, daily, and carved our names into trees along the way. We knew all the shortcuts and would race hikers to the top, winning every time. We were good friends with the forest ranger who manned the fire tower. He had a pet seagull named Mr. Saunders. Mr. Saunders was tame; you could pet him. I have never met anyone since who had a pet seagull.

In addition to seagulls, Maine also has a lot of snakes. My oldest brother, Davie, would catch black snakes and chase me around the house waving them at me. He obviously meant no harm but to this day I am mortified of snakes. In later years, I always hated going to the first tee at the Blue Hill golf course because it was right near the woods and there was usually a snake basking there.

Cinders and Yoyo

Barra

So far I've covered seagulls and snakes. How about dogs for a change. In our house, pets were considered family members. I vaguely remember Cinders and Yoyo, two dogs who were old when I was born. The first pet I remember well was our dog Barra. Barra was a Chinook. We got him from the Perry Greene kennels in Waldoboro, Maine. My grandparents, who lived next door to us in New York, also bought a Chinook, Rowan. Chinooks were an American breed and Perry and his wife Honey were the sole breeders, anywhere. Chinooks were beautiful, friendly dogs, having the appearance of blond German Shepherds. Not everyone could own a Chinook; you had to first pass the Perry Greene sniff test. If Perry's personal dogs didn't like you, then you weren't fit to have one of their offspring. Sadly, Barra died in the prime of his life, ignominiously run over by a garbage truck. Rowan lived a long life. After Perry passed away, Honey remarried but the breed was never the same. Sixty years later, the kennel has changed hands innumerable times but the breed still exists. There is a website, if it's still current, (www.chinookclubofamerica.org/chinook-history.html) which has an informative history of the Chinook breed including being lead dogs during Admiral Byrd's Antarctic expedition. Having grown up with Chinooks, I found it a very interesting read.

My older brothers had summer jobs raking blueberries. I remember driving with my mother to drop them off and later pick them up. I was always fascinated by the shape of their blueberry rakes. As an adult, I was surprised to learn that New Jersey has more blueberries than Maine. The blueberries in Maine grow close to the ground and can be raked by hand. The ones in New Jersey grow on taller bushes. A Maine blueberry rake wouldn't work in NJ.

Blue Hill had a library. I guess my parents liked to read because we went there a lot. On the library floor were two large bear skin rugs, one brown, one white. I can vividly remember rolling around on them. They felt comforting. I also remember Rowantrees Pottery. You could go in the back and watch the artisans working clay on their turntables. They'd even let you try. It was fun getting wet clay all over yourself. The faster the turntable spun, the more it splattered. Their pottery was indestructible; my mother drank her coffee from the same green-colored mug for at least 50 years.

We stopped vacationing in Maine after my grandfather died, opting instead for Martha's Vineyard. Several years later, we returned to vacationing in Maine and bought another Chinook but that's for another blog.