The beauty of a rough, unfinished interior—one that grabbed a lot of attention last night as a peaceful place, warm and inviting—is that if there is a leak around a window, you can find it quickly.
With familial intentions to insulate and finish the interior of the porch with some pine, cedar, or hemlock, nickel gap shiplap or tongue & groove rough cut lumber, and insulation, I’m really glad we had a northeasterly blow with heavy rain last night.
Yeah, I found a leak.
I noted after the snapshot photo that there was a spot on the pine sheathing boards, facing toward the interior, that became darker than the surrounding wood. This caused me to mosey over and find the damp spot on the floor.
To give the old camp credit, she holds up well to winds that come across about five miles of rock, moss, and fir trees, traveling in from the Atlantic Ocean as if unimpeded by anything at all.
The cedar shingles (not shakes, in this case) have withstood some stiff wind and rain, but not forever. I could see where a little moisture had visited a couple of times before, but this has been a dry summer, with rain missing us, mostly.
I tossed down a towel, then drove my unusually sizeable nose up under the window sill, and determined that I can seal the spot with some caulking later today, once it dries out under the force of the winds building impressive whitecaps on the lake this morning.
I will never complain about the upkeep. Well, I will, but mostly to family, because I know how lucky I am.
This camp cost me far less to build than would have a used automobile; true story.
My friends, some with skills, came to help, and I learned from them. Ed McDonald, a real carpenter, helped me lay down the foundational supports, helping me build something square to stand on. As a matter of fact, the glass sliding doors that stood for over thirty years between the once screened-in porch and the tiny living space were sourced from his basement. They were already twenty years old when he gave them to me. They held up well.
That’s how you once built your camp in Maine, with used things, already discarded by others. Not anymore. This camp stands as a holy testimony to the help of friends with spare building materials.
Then, Larry, Marty, and Scott built the walls one weekend. Then my good friend, Tommy Hutchinson (also a heck of a carpenter and cabinet maker), made sure that my roof rafters were done right.
Larry Ellis returned with me in the late autumn of 1997 and shingled my roof the first time, advising me to skip the tar paper base because the Advantech roofing material would work just fine without it. He scolded me for asking a couple of times if it was a good idea. He told me to shut up and trust him. Larry and I worked on a lot of murder cases together, and he is the best evidence tech I’ve ever worked with. I had no idea he knew roofing, but he does.
Larry was right; that roof stayed water-tight way beyond the expected life of the original shingles. My main roof has never leaked, but it’s now metal, as the insurance company is always looking for ways to drop you from the rolls, and they wanted me to know that the roof was too old to continue to be insured. It was a must-do.
But good buildings still stand against bad weather, and the new-to-me wet spot on the wall is something that I expected to happen.
As my friend Charlie has always said, “The sun doesn’t shine up the same dog’s a** forever.” I say “butt” when I expound that slogan to my Mama. It’s only polite, even though the description is referencing the same darn thing. The buttocks—also an acceptable word with Carol- but it is pushing the boundaries of being “So base, Timothy.”
New camps on lakes are really houses. There are no real “camps” being built anymore. People want comfort, amenities, and the ability to impress the paying VRBO visitors with Joanna Gaines-inspired signs that indicate that lake life is clean and whitewashed with really great WI-FI.
My neighbor from some distance away is visiting the lake this week. His camp is a testament to the old ways, eschewing all technology in favor of keeping it exactly like it was in 1929, when it was built.
He always pulls out something amazing for me to peruse; this week, a dime-store detective novel that’s been on the dusty bookshelf since 1960—I will read it and return it, of course. But also a railway cargo tag, still attached to a box spring under his mattress.
That’s how things were sent to the lake, back in the day. The neighbor lifted up the mattress so I could see it, as I am well-known to be into the nostalgia of our little enclave down here, some distance from any place important.
It so happens that the railroad store, a few miles out over dirt roads, near the tracks, was owned and run by my Significant One’s great-uncle.
That’s her uncle’s name on the tag- the receiver at the railroad depot/general store.
The simplicity of shipping something, with nothing more than the town’s name and not to a specific address with no zip code, then knowing it would be there to pick it up when you arrive at a camp in the woods, makes me want to go back in time more than I can emphasize.
He put the mattress back over the tag, careful to do no damage so future prying neighbors might be able to see it, too.
Historical documentation and connections need not be formalized and edited. Sometimes it’s right there, under the mattress.
I’ll fix the leak today. Then, I’ll hopefully sit back for a few years and wait for the next one.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
*Thanks for joining me here, in this space. That’s the new term for a room or a place, space. So generic. I digress. Thanks for the support from the loyal followers of timcottonwrites.com. BuyMeACoffee keeps us up and running; you all are appreciated. tc