When we weren’t sightseeing or involved in wedding activities, much of our time in Maine was spent at
Gruesome Gables, the house (pictured above) my mother-in-law, Dorothy, rented. You can see more photos online, but there are two things you won’t sense—the enormity of those bedrooms and the truly gruesome nature of this home, which is seriously in need of refreshing. Maybe a really good scrubbing, too. This is not to suggest that the house wasn’t clean. Heavens, no—it’s just old.
A lot of homes on the Down East coast, like Gruesome Gables, are built in the Shingle Style. On the other side of the house, not visible in this photo is a gambrel roof, which is a great detail.
The owners left an eight page, single-spaced guide to the house and its idiosyncrasies, such as doors that stick in the near-constant coastal humidity. Renters are advised not to force the doors open, which always proved tricky when one was stuck in the half-bath. The electrical system needed to be replaced. More than one fixture pull required just the right touch to get the bulb to light. The owners also asked that the china cabinets not be opened and the old (but not necessarily valuable) books be left on the shelves.
My favorite story is one that David (the stepfather-in-law) tells. On their first night, the bedroom in which David and Dorothy were sleeping was stuffy, and they wanted run a fan. The nearest—and only—electrical outlet was full so they followed one of the occupying plugs out of the room, into the hall. It appeared to be an extension cord leading to the attic, perhaps powering a ceiling fan to cool the house, so thought David, who unplugged the cord and swapped in his portable fan. The next morning, the caretaker, who lived next door, paid a visit. David mentioned that he had unplugged the extension cord running out of the attic. The caretaker turned white and said, “Well, we’ll have to fix that.” A few years ago, he went to the attic because no one had been up there in over twenty years. When he poked his head into the ceiling access, he found a two-foot thick carpet of bat guano. After the shit was cleaned up, a machine—on a long extension cord because the attic doesn't have electric outlets—was set up to emit a bat-deterring sonic pulse. So, yes, we’ll be wanting to plug in that device. ASAP.
And, the house has a ghost.
Of course, a house like this has a ghost, but I’m guessing it was just the bats.
Built in 1885 as a summer cottage, GG is huge and has large rambling rooms and some tiny rooms, such as two pantries, as well as multiple fireplaces and porches galore. I spent a lot of my time at GG on the porches. The front porch wraps around half the house. This is where David would plant himself with a pile of mysteries and thrillers, while the children—six of them, half boys, half girls, ranging in age from two to eight years old—rode scooters (yes, on the porch, it was that big), mastered the hula hoop, and, in general, squirreled around, all glad to see each other. I preferred the glassed-in porch, just off the living room, as did my mother-in-law, who would appear with her books, white wine spritzers, and white cheddar and Triscuits. God bless her. The house had its own water tower, which was removed at some point in the house's history. The remaining circular cement slab was converted to a private porch, mirroring the many rocky “islands” throughout Blue Hill Bay.
In between spells sitting on the porches, the adults would take turns accompanying the children to the beach, where we would look for crabs, hermit crabs, starfish, and jellyfish in the tidal pools. I could comb the beach for hours, even though this was possibly the worst beach for that. Occasionally I would find part of a sea-urchin shell (very fragile), but most of the shells were from mussels (sharp, too common) or snails (dull, too common). The sea glass was still too fresh, too jagged and dangerous to palm, as well as too shiny to be of much interest. Not quite tumbled, frosty sea glass, which jewelry artists in these parts suspend in silver and string on chains to become very expensive bracelets and necklaces.
In the evenings, each couple (John’s brothers Will and Ben and their wives, as well as his mother and her husband) took a turn making dinner for everyone. Nothing induces panic in me more than cooking for more than eight people. Fortunately the house was equipped with a full kitchen and had a grill on the back porch. Plus, my mother-in-law brought her Cuisinart (no kidding! They drove from NJ so it was easy to pack the car trunk with everything but their own kitchen sink.) When it was our turn to provide dinner, John stepped up and grilled lamb and feta burgers, which we topped with fresh tomatoes and hummus. John’s brothers each took a turn with fantastic pasta dishes.
The house also sported its own lobster pot, a deep metal container you fill with water and under which you build a fire to boil the water. It’s the similar device as what is used in a New Orleans crawfish boil. I regret that we didn’t use this to cook our own lobsters, but it wasn’t in anyone’s nature to fire it up. Besides, just a few miles down the road in Blue Hill village, the roadside lobster shack sold whole cooked beauts for less than the price of a gourmet burger in Minneapolis.
Rooms at GG had been doled out on a first-come basis, and the St. Paul Shepards missed out on getting one since we committed to the trip much later than everyone else. Instead, we stayed at the Blue Hill Farm Inn for the first weekend. It was only a short drive away. The rooms were small but clean. No air-conditioning so we slept with windows opened wide. Between super late bedtimes and the fresh air, the boys slept until 9:00 most mornings. We also stayed with family friend Helen, at her summer home in East Blue Hill, also very close to GG. Helen’s son Alex’s wedding was the reason we had trekked to Maine. I have known Alex since he was slightly older than Simon is now. His wedding was, btw, on a spit of land overlooking Blue Hill Bay, and it was one of the most beautiful ceremonies I have ever attended.
