Hess Lodge

Today my grandparent's camp in Duhring, PA came to mind. There is a bushel of memories from the camp, too many for a simple essay.  I'll settle for describing it and let your imagination do the rest.

The camp was built in 1933 from an old barn that Grandpa had torn down and moved--plank by plank--to Forest County.  He officially named it "Hess Lodge", and for many years a wood-burned plaque bore the name and hung outside the front door.  When I was about eleven, I informed Grandpa Ernie that it should be "HESS'S".  Too many S's, he said, and "Hess Lodge" it remained.  Most folks around there called it "Ernie's Place".

Hess Lodge was two stories high with barnboard siding and a green shingled roof. Grandpa built awnings over the front and back in preparation for the porches.  (I used to call them "yawnings".)  The first floor had two big rooms--a kitchen that eventually had running water and propane, and could seat a dozen with room to spare was at the back.  The other side was a living room with an eisen-glassed pot belly stove, a floor-model radio, two pull-out sofas and a a huge library table.  Upstairs were two bedrooms, each with two double beds and a chamber pot (look it up.).  The beds were topped with feather-filled pads and feather-filled quilts that Grandma, and maybe Great-Grandma had made.

Grandpa had added porches made of two-by-fours and plywood and painted them a dull grey.  Wicker chairs, a glider and old kitchen chairs served us well as we would sit and watch thunderstorms move into the valley.

Behind the camp was a deep pit, fifty feet across and at least twenty feet deep.  Previous lessees (nobody could own the property there; it was leased from the state) had allowed gravel to be dug from it.  It was never filled in, and neighbors tended to use it to get rid of their trash. Bears loved it. What treasures might still be buried there?

Along one side of the camp was an abandoned railroad track.  As girls Mom and Aunt Marje would hop the train, or watch for the CCC boys to come riding in for treats at Grandma's table. They took care of Grandma during the week when she would often be there alone, doing routine chores and keeping the grass cut.  Then they went back to the camp on Government Road where they lived.  Many a time we followed that track to the swimming hole in one direction, or the swinging bridge in the other.

On the other side, down a steep embankment, was the "crick"--Spring Creek by name, trout heaven. Following the creek downstream took you to the same swinging bridge, a treacherous-looking wood and rope contraption that we ran across without fear.  The other direction led to the swimming hole near Summer's place, home of kids and snapping turtles.

Out in the front yard was a huge stump.  I'm not really sure of it's origin--it was never a tree in my lifetime.  It must have been really big, the stump being at least eight feet across.  Happy hours with my dolls and tree frogs, feeding birds and watching chipmunks and the occasional snake...what a life it was.

I remember every blade of grass at Hess Lodge.  I remember the cool, clear water of the spring that supplied us, the sweetness of wild berries, the smell of the pines.  I recall vividly the salamanders that hid under the porch and the sandbox that Grandpa brought into the living room when it rained. I remember the neighbors showing up as soon as Grandma or Aunt Marjie took a cake from the oven. I remember the dark green black-out shades from WWII that graced the windows.  I remember the day my Dad chased a bear through the woods in his Jeep, and tagging along when he hunted rattlesnakes at the Gravel Pit.  Looking for deer was a nightly ritual at Watson Farm or Pigeon, always ending with ice cream from Ridgeway or Marienville.  Not a cone, no sirree.  The half gallon was opened into a brick, sliced and stacked in our bowls, worked at by the four or five of us until nothing remained.  Always Neapolitan.  I got the strawberry.

And who could forget the bats!  Nestled in a valley, the big trees made an excellent home for flying rodents.  One night, Linda and I were minding our own business when the bat whooshed through. "GRANDPA!" we screeched, and in he came with his broom to down the bat.  We couldn't find the carcass in the dim light and slept restlessly.  It the morning, there it was, right beside Linda's shoe.

The camp has been remodeled into a house; the people who shared the cake at Grandma's table are gone. The memories, however, are etched there when I close my eyes.

I've become more sentimental of late, clinging to those days. I wonder what happened to Gary(was it Young or Youngberg?), the boy next door, or Vince from Youngstown? Or Betty with the black and white poodles?  I wonder if the current owners are as happy there as we were?

Memories might be God's way of teaching us to appreciate what we have, or maybe they are just a pleasant way to spend an evening.