Summers Spent in the Monkeyspoon

Fall of 1970. Robert Walker drives his pine-green Dodge Spirit tirelessly up and down Atlantic Avenue in Wells, Maine, determined to find the perfect beachfront cottage for his family to rent on vacation next year and years to come. There are few cottages and congestion in the 1970s, much less than would come in future decades.

Driving down Mile Road, the road along the marsh leading to Wells Centre and Atlantic Avenue, the smell of the ocean in its nostalgic, fishy glory must have been part of the deciding factors in Robert’s heart for this location.

Summer of 2007. It has now been thirty-six years since the family first spent a week or two on Atlantic Avenue in cozy two-story, four-bedroom cottage painted white and adorned with black shutters, complete with a wraparound porch spanning half of the property and very limited amenities. This small space, named the Monkeyspoon by the owners, already holds more family memories than were ever anticipated.

The landscape, in my time, is a beachfront road littered with cottages of all shapes, sizes and styles; often they are placed so close to one another that looking through the window of one cottage would show you the inside of its neighbor’s.

Now with a grandson-in-law, granddaughter-in-law and four great-grandchildren, much has changed for Robert and Celia Walker since the first years spent in that little cottage by the sea. I should know; I’ve been vacationing with my great-grandparents, since my first-ever summer in 1994.

My great-grandparents, my grandmother, my uncle, aunt and cousins, my brother and I, my parents and occasionally a guest or two all pile into that beachfront bungalow. During that time, we live in very close quarters, but no one seems to care.

The sun rises on the beachfront at dawn and sets over the marsh at dusk, shining through the countless windows and lighting up the cottage walls with beautiful oranges, pinks and purples each morning and night.

I recall the scene each morning. I can hear my brother, every summer from age four to twelve, climbing into bed with Nana and Papa, and his sweet little voice saying, “Good morning Nana. Put your teeth in and come downstairs to have some coffee.”

Climbing down the stairs in her elegant nightgown, saying good morning to everyone, Nana would sing “By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea. You and me, you and me, oh how happy we’ll be!” And we were. 

Summer of 2012. Robert and Celia are no longer with us. There is a noticeable void in the cottage this year. No morning coffee with Nana. No more hearing her voice sing “By the Sea.” No collecting shells and walks on the beach with Papa. This year feels like purgatory, as we have never spent a summer in Wells without them.

Summer of 2015. That void is still felt, but things have changed. The kitchen had an upgrade, everyone traded rooms, and new traditions have been made.  There is still much laughter, most often when my tattooed, Harley-loving uncle with long hair and a handlebar mustache sings “Tragedy” by the Bee-Gees into an ice cream scoop microphone.

That simple drive down a long beach road forty-five years ago led to a family legacy of laughs and memories.