willen Prall Grant Bacon 1950 MAINE Room DaughTeR of MR. HND.MRS. HARRY ALLEN GRANT BAR HARBOR SEVENTY YEARS AGO Venezuela does not suggest Mount Deset, yet it was on that perilous mountain drive down from Caracas that a chance companion started these random memories. I had been comparing the grade to the one up Green Mountain and from that touched upon my own childish rememberance of Ber Harbor and the even earlier period described to me by my parents. "you should not let all that go into limbo," said my companion, "You should write it down". It Was in 1869 that my parents returned from four years of wandering in Europe, restless and wondering where to go next. A letter awaited them from an Aunt suggesting that they join her in a little Maine village called Bar Harbor. The semi-boarding house hotel was not too bad, she wrote, so in a z fog as thick as Devonshire clotted cream, the old side-wheeler deposited my Father and Mother at the wharf. Never was & more dismal arrival. The comforts of the hostelry were crude after Europe, the fog persisted and my Mother was ready to leave at once. But the boat only came twice a week. Then on the day of departure the fog went up like a curtain, Frenchman's Bay stretched blue and spark- ling to the bluer Gouldsboro Hills and my Mother, unpacking, said to my Father, "I want some land here. I want my bedroom windows to look out on those hills". It was love at first sight. Her husband thought her slightly mad, but when he found that she was really in earnest, he bestireed himself and bought an acre and a half of shore front from one of the numerous Higgins family. * cadillac mo. - 2 - This property was situated in Albert Meadow near Balance Rock and is now a little park. At that time there was only one other summer cottage, built the year before and owned by Mr. Alpheus Hardy of Boston. It also stood on the shore but nearer the wharf where the path bends and Pulpit rock. juts up from the beach. But if you are not one of the children who climbed all over that pulpit, you may not recall it. Our own cottage never had an architect. It was run up by a local builder who gave us a fireplace in the living room, a bay windown in Mother's bedroom looking out to her hills and who finished it in time for occupancy the next summer. Always on K arriving, the first errand was to take a pail and go up to Grandma Higgina for potato yeast. Grandma Higgins lived in an unpainted Cape Cod type of house on the little hill in Albert Meadow and regularly supplied us with is initial necessity. She lived just long enough for me to remember her brown parchment face and wrinkles when we would take up to her some little dessert or delicacy. Then there was Captain Deering of Castine who commanded the old Lewiston, our one means of contact with the world. The days that he brought her into harbor were social events, Everyone went down to see the boat come in. A dim memory stirs in my brain of a discontinued service in the fall. If one passed thr Cinderella date, lured by the amber and anythist of the autumn days, one had to drive across the island to South-West Harbor and catch the steamer there. - 3 - Housekeeping must have taxed my Mother's ingenuity, for the day of canned goods had not arrived. An itinerant butcher stayed for a short season and use& to give my Father sweetbreads as worthless. On leaving he sold him half a sheep. When that was gone they had to forage. An old buckboard could be hired and one day they drove into the interior bent on food. Some fat ducks in a farm yard attracted their attention. They got hold of the owner and explained their need. He listened patiently but finally remarked, "I calkeate to eat them ducks myself". But there was fish and some lobster, when the pots were put out, and if a school of mackerel came into the harbor everyone turned fisherman. As fall came on old Mr. Richardson was a life saver. He would appear with a gun under his arm and a pair of partridges for a quarter. I recollect them as the most delicious thing I have ever put into my mouth. Sommesville was the largest place on the island, perhaps because it was the oldest, you could replace a burnt saucepan there and find a few other necessities. Very occasionally the enterprising store keeper would fill his wagon with tin ware and jog over to the Bar Harbor housewives. Milk was not & problem as all the natives had cows, but it was subject to uncertainty. Mr. Higgins was our dairyman and I have seen this scene enacted so many times that it is stamped on my memory. Supper would be late, the family would be getting restless, the maid would appear, "Mrs. Grant, Mr. Higgins says his cow is lost in the woods and you can't have any milk tonight". All the cows were belled and those musical tinkles accompanied us on every walk. Our favorite climb on Sunday afternoons was up - 4 - Little Kebo when no country club sprawled at its foot. As the view grew more and more panoramic over the Porcupine Islands, the bells grew fainter until they seemed title like fairy chimes in an enchant- ed world. And Bar Harbor was an enchanted world to a growing child with the tide bringing in new treasures each day. The rocks on the beach lie in ledge formation so that fascinating shelves are made for imaginary pantries and kitchens. We used to stock them with with the green seaweed for lettuce and the mussels for oysters and countless other items that I have forgotten. But as I grew older other people began to find our paradise, not too many at first. The Minots, Wells and Peabodys of Boston built between Mr. Hardy and ourselves. The Derbys of Boston were on the other side with a large field between. The daughter of this family was my special pal and I remember a string trolley on pulleys that we constructed between the two houses to send notes and packages to each other. It would have been much easier to run across, but to childhood the trolley was irristable. We knew nothing about the contraction and expansion of string in wet and sun. The first night it shrank up taut. As the day pro- gressed and the sun came out the long line sagged util it was just low enough to catch the pedestrian walking to the shore under the chin. We were horrified to see the sudden halt made by these people and our transportation system had to go. There were no sand beaches around us, but five miles awa y near Great Head there was a wonderful one. To this our in- fulgent parents took us on birthdays. The children would be in- vited one or two buckboards hired, the ice cream packed in a huge 5 - bucket and away we would go for an afternoon of bliss. Sometimes we substituted The Ovens for Sand Beach, but it was not as popular. The mountains were always calling to us and on titts those brilliant crystalline days when you catch your breath in wonder, days that only Maine can produce, we would climb them in turn - (#) Newport, Green, Sargent. Newport, I think, was our favorite. It springs right out of the sea and gives intimate views of everything. Now building and people increased rapidly. Grandma Higgins' ground-clinging little home had long since gone and tall twin summer cottages took its place. Even the first shingle palaces were rising. Soon victorias with flunkies in livery covered us with dust we we trudged off on our mountain hikes. For us the charm of the place had vanished. We lingered along for a while, but we gr ew restless. Then my Father discoved an old Maine woodman from beyond Bangor who summered in the Indian Village and took visitors canoeing on Frenchman's Bay. He and my Father paddled many miles together talk- ing of the fish and game in Jock's section, for my Father was an expert fly fisherman and had made wonderful catched in Eagle Lake and Jordan's Pond, That was now a thing of the past, so he listened the more eagerly to Jock's stories and finally followed him into his inland wolderness. Gradually we all made the same trek. There, space is not cluttered n up with bu ildings, standards of living are simple and the few neighbors feel a kindly interest in each other. We can paddle out at night and see a deer and the loons are always calling. It is not as beautiful as Bar Harbor. Few Places are, but it possesses the charm and serenity that Bar Harbor has lost. (#) Flying Squadron