Written for Creative Non-Fiction Writing, Fall 2014

Great Pond
Sam Scheetz
Its 11:32pm.
Weve reached the final obstacle of our 6-hour journey: the climb up Dry Point Road. Its
rutted, dirt composition becomes so narrow, our mid-sized SUV scratches the bark of the
burly Oak. We are swallowed by darkness but muscle memory tells me were rounding
the last turn. Dad flicks off the car lights to prove his mastery of the landscape- Mom is
unimpressed, Cookie and I plead him to stop.
In the abyss of black I make out a familiar white, wooden plank that reads in handwritten scribble: Scheetz-Clark Camp.
For the past 54 years, the Scheetz/Clark family has staked its residency on a 5-acre
lakefront lot at the end of Dry Point Road. Formerly the summer home of 1920 Broadway
personality, Florence Reed, Pop-Pop Clark snagged a deal from a friend of a friend, and
in 1963 the celebrity oasis in Belgrade Lakes, Maine became ours. Weve been going
every summer since.
Amidst giant pine trees, wild blueberry patches and soggy swamplands lay the camp. The
Big House and the Little House, two non-insulated wood cabins, sleep the entire clan:
Mom, Dad, Cookie, Kyle, Grandma Elsie, Grandpa Bob, cousins, aunts, uncles, Great
Uncle Don, second cousins, second cousins kids, and occasionally bats. The property
hugs the Northwest side of Great Pond-- an ideal location for a ski undisturbed by boat
wakes, but central enough for a canoe ride to town. The Lawn, a 100-yard green barrier,
separates the Big House and the Little House. Adorned with croquet wickets, a hammock,
a swing-set, lounge chairs and round patio tables, it is our jungle gym.
My earliest memory of Maine is from the summer when I turned five. It was 6:30 am and
I was with my cousin Kit. We were the early birds.
Anxious to get a start on the day, we tiptoe down from our bunks careful not to wake
Kyle and Carter. The morning dew is still fresh in the grass leaving our bare feet damp
and stained green.
The lake is smooth and seductive. With a look and a nod the decision is made. We strip
out of our PJs and plunge into the water.
Its not long into our splashing and laughing that we awake Uncle Dave. Stumbling out of
the Little House and onto the Lawn as we scurry up the latter he shouts, WHAT are you
doing and WHERE are your clothes?
Its difficult to pinpoint the thing that makes Maine special. Its certainly not lavish. Its
not boastful. The interior decor hasnt been updated since 1963. A Friday night means a
trip to the Dairy Bar (an ice cream shop, not an actual bar).
Its the memories, the tradition, the timelessness that keep me craving more.

Its waking up to the roar of the Baja as Dad takes off on his morning ski-- running
outside suited in my life jacket to secure a position on-deck, never wanting to pass up the
early calm of the lake.
Its the annual loon call contest that my cousins and I put on, as we try to replicate the
swooning hum of the birds. Dad steps in with his veteran skills. How do you do that?!
He cups his hands together, leaving a pea-sized hole in between his thumbs. He flutters
his right hand while the left firmly squeezes his right. A hum erupts as air whistles
through the narrow window. See, its easy. We try to imitate his gestures. Once again,
Dad wins.
Its the boundless supply of Days Country Store donuts, fresh off the fryer each morning,
packed into two paper bags, and positioned on the outdoor tables awaiting our
consumption. The most difficult decision of the day is chocolate or vanilla.
Its the nights where the sky is so clear, the stars so vivid that it feels like the Lawn is a
planetarium. We sit on the lawn chairs bundled in blankets and sweatshirts, eyes fixated
on the freckled darkness.
Its games of Mexican Train that penetrate into the early hours of the morning. Grandma
and I are battling for the lead. Kyle has given up. Uncle Don dances around the living
room--microphone in hand-- in a desperate effort to get karaoke-time started.
Its finding a ripe blueberry after a long search. With patience and expertise, I scour the
patches. I dont settle until I find the one-- a firm berry the size of pebble with a denimblue hue bursting with an exact balance of sweet and sour.
The beauty of Great Pond lay in mundane pleasures- in loon calls, and donuts, and
skinny-dipping, and blueberry picking, and board games, and wiffle ball games with
second cousins. It is simple. And its simplicity is what makes it extraordinary.