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.

The Things We Carry

Everyone has something they carry with them day to day that holds serious emotional weight. In recent years, mine has been my faith necklace; before that it was a bracelet my mom gave to me in August 2010, when I got my first car. It was a thin, red leather bracelet with two charms on it: a silver feather and blue-spotted stone. These two charms are supposed to represent luck and protection. Since it was my first car, it was fitting; therefore I kept it wrapped around the gearshift.

Not until March 5, 2011, did this bracelet have meaning to me. Driving my brother home from a hockey game, we were hit by a drunk driver on the I-93 exit 1 off ramp by Rockingham Mall. The car was a complete loss; yet thankfully somehow my brother and I walked away from the accident unharmed.

The first thing I saw after the impact of the crash was that bracelet, still wrapped around the gearshift. I made sure to take it home with me last night. I'm not the kind of person to believe that an insignificant, inanimate object could save a person's life, but I do believe the bracelet brought us both luck and protection that night. If any one thing had been different that night, everything would have changed. What if my parents weren't close behind us in their car? What if the accident happened on the highway and turned my car over? Most frightening: what if one or both of us didn't walk away from the crash scene that night? My family never would have been the same.

When I look at that silly little bracelet—which I still keep in my car to this day—I remember that night and how much worse it could have been, how much it might have changed my family. While I know the bracelet is not what kept my brother and me safe that night—rather it was the airbags, seatbelts, and circumstance—it is the symbol of that night that I carry with me as a reminder of everything I know and love can change in the blink of an eye. 

The Journey to Find Home

It wasn’t discussed. It was simply understood that all other options had been exhausted. The only place for the family of six to sleep for the next four nights was inside their proverbial rolling prison, their grey 2001 Dodge Caravan. “La van,” as they called it, was their life. Driving for thousands of miles with no clear destination, simply looking for a place to call their home.

Marco Vinicio Loria Morales was born on September 17, 1989, in the city of El Erizo, in the province of Alajuela in Costa Rica. He is the youngest in a family with four children. In Costa Rica Marco’s family was supported by his father’s construction business, until work became too sparse to continue. The decision was made in June 2004 to move the entire family out of Costa Rica for “a chance at a better life,” he says. To buy the plane tickets to Canada, they were forced to sell everything they owned. They told no one they were leaving, reducing the risk of authorities being notified of their departure and ending their journey before it began.

For two years the family of six lived in Canada, forced to live in a refugee shelter and tenement housing; they had no other options. After their two years, the Canadian government gave them an ultimatum: leave or be forced out. After crossing the American border, Marco’s family remained on the road for over three years, sometimes forced to live out of their car. Starting in Miami and moving up the Eastern Seaboard, everyone worked odd jobs until they reached Salem, NH, where they live today.

Finally, the unpredictable string of odd jobs had come to an end when Marco’s parents found full-time jobs with a cleaning service that they still have today. Marco and his brother found jobs at breakfast restaurants, starting as part-time dishwashers eventually being promoted to cooks and ultimately running their kitchens themselves. Two years ago, Marco started at Maddie’s in Salem, where he still works full time today, while taking classes part-time at Northern Essex Community College studying business management and real estate.

Today, that Dodge Caravan is still a part of their everyday life, parked in their driveway in Salem, a sentimental reminder of the lowest point in their journey and how far they have come. Growing up the way he did, Marco used to consider his luck unfortunate, but only for a short time “As I got older, I realized I was very fortunate because most people never have the chance to grow up the way I did, with a [realistic] taste of life and the world.”