Who lived here? Why did they build it right over the stream? I'm one who always wants to know why things are the way they are. There must be reasons. There must be answers. And, yes, there must be dreams--always. In my mind's eye, I picture the builders. I ponder on what their hopes and dreams might have been. It must have been cold there during the winter. When the sky and the water and the wind raged, as they often do in Maine, did the cold creep through the floor boards and grab at their ankles? I imagine it must have as it does even now in my own home. Was their fire enough to keep them warm? Did they have hand-sewn quilts on the bed, made from scraps of fabric odds and ends? There looks to be a shed in the back. How much food did they store in it? Did they hike up to the Harraseeket River and fish in its tidal waters in the winter?
And Spring. Did they wait longingly, as I do, for Spring? Did they turn hopeful, tearful eyes to the sun and wait for the joy it always brings? I think they did.
|The shack on Mill Stream.|