So I am originally from Northern Maine, a little town called Portage Lake. According to the US Census Bureau, Portage has a population of 365—just enough for one person for each day of the year, except for leap years. And while I grew up in the Bangor area, every summer we ventured north to our grandparents’ camp on Big Machias Lake.
It was a rustic camp that my grandfather had built. We would turn off the paved highway of Route 11 where it crosses the Allagash River in Ashland and drive for 20 miles deep into the woods. No electricity, no running water. When some people say camp, they really mean a summer home on the lake. But this was a camp; rough and rugged. I used to tell people to drive to the end of the earth, take a left, and go about 20 miles down a dirt logging road. You’ll see a wooden sign that says “Dow” nailed to a maple tree. That’s where we’ll be.
People in Montana say they live in God’s country, but to me, as a kid who loved the stories of Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett, Big Machias Lake was God’s country. We would wade into the Twenty-Mile stream, fishing pole in hand, easing into the cold flowing water, slowly making our way downstream, casting our lines in expectation. We were surrounded by the lush and rugged forests deep in the North Maine Woods. In the mornings, you’d step out of the camp into the brisk morning air and wander down the short path to the shore. With a steaming cup of coffee in hand, I’d watch sometimes as many as seven moose out on the point in the distance, submerged in water, feeding on the plants and vegetation. In the evenings, we’d listen to the loons calling in the dark of the night. It was rustic and peaceful, yet full of adventure.
There was an old cast-iron wood stove used for heat and cooking. As a kid, I loved the sound of the fire crackling early in the morning, as my grandfather, father, or uncle Buzzy would fill it with balls of crumpled-up newspaper and cedar kindling. They would strike a wooden match, touching the flame to the crumpled-up newspaper, which would soon ignite the dry cedar kindling, bringing the fire to life. This meant two things: the chill of the morning air would soon be swept away, and the smell of bacon frying in a cast-iron pan on top of the stove would soon follow, along with pancakes, butter, and maple syrup. I can still hear the sound of that cast iron pan sliding across the top of that stove.
On a small wooden table not too far from the stove sat an old wind-up alarm clock. It was a round clock with a white body and big black numbers to indicate the hour, minute, and seconds. Sitting on top were two round metal bells with a ringer in between. The back had two metal tabs, one used to wind the clock, and the other to wind the ringer for the alarm.
I loved that clock. You would wind it up and hear a distinct tick, tick, tick—the indication of time passing. We would play with the alarm, winding it up and setting it to go off a minute later, and then wait. The alarm would ring until the winding mechanism ran out of steam. We would grab the clock and wind it up again, making this “zick, zick, zick” sound and then wait for it to go off again. I can’t believe my mother and aunt Ruth didn’t kill us or smash that alarm clock with a hammer.
Throughout the week, you’d come back in from swimming in the lake, and in the background, you would hear, tick, tick, tick. You’d come back from fishing, walk into the camp to show off your catch. Grammy Dow would always ask with a grin on her face, “Who caught the biggest fish?”, and in the background, you’d hear the faint tick, tick, tick, as time passed.
After supper, the family would sit around the table, under these propane-powered mantel lights, playing one last game of cribbage or Uno, and you would hear the faint tick, tick, tick, as time passed. Crawling into bed, with lights turned out, in the darkness, would be the ever-present tick, tick, tick as time passed and another day was gone.
Before you knew it, the week was over. It was time to pack our belongings and make the journey back home. And in the background, the clock continued to do what it does—marking the passing of time. Our time at camp was over, and with no one left to wind the clock, eventually the ticking stopped, and everything went silent.
Time, it’s the marking of our lives. James 4:14 states: “For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.”
While those camp memories are still vivid in my mind today, the fact is that they occurred more than 40 years ago. Sometimes the days seem long, and the hours longer, but the years and now decades seem to fly by and then disappear. The days get shorter as we experience the passing of one year into the next.
October 30 (the day of this blog post) is the anniversary of my mom’s passing. I turned 54 this past year, and it seemed odd as my birthday approached to realize that with that birthday, I had lived a decade longer than she did. She died at the age of 44, after losing her battle with cancer. You just never know how much vapor is left before it is all wisped away.
My mom and I always shared the same birthday, November 6. Because of this, my birthday always feels more like a weighty moment of remembrance and reflection than a day of celebration.
I am always reminded that while I have been given the gift of another day, another year, the sands of the hourglass keep pouring out. Life is a vapor. Could the last tick be on the horizon, just around the corner, or standing at the door, ready to knock?
And like that clock at camp, I hear that tick, tick, tick, and it seems to grow louder in my heart, in my soul, and in my mind every year; always present in the back of my mind.
I understand the gift I have been given, so as I prepare to start my 55th year, I want to do it with vision, purpose, and intention, knowing that there are more years behind me than lie ahead.
Finally, as Morgan Wallen said to his mama in the song “I Thought You Should Know”
Yeah, I know you’ve been worrying ’bout me
You’ve been losin’ sleep since ’93
I thought you should know
That all those prayers you thought you wasted on me
Must’ve finally made their way on through
I thought you should know
Thought you should know
Thought you should know
I thought you should know
Thought you should know
