I have been coming to this corner of southern Maine every summer for 45 years. Our kids are visiting their grandparents just as I used to do. We stay in the same house I did when I was a kid, sleep in the same beds, sleep in the same sheets, under the same blankets, although now the sheets are washed here in a washing machine. When I was little, all the laundry used to go out to a laundry service in town. The sheets came back pressed and folded into tidy, tight squares that were a marvel to me. My grandmothers initials in fancy script are still on the now-frayed towels in the linen closet that smells of dove soap and has a pull string up to the light socket in the center of the tiny painted ceiling. Not much has changed here. The same rocks, houses, bridges, boat moorings, docks, and even most of the trees are all still in the same places where they have stood for my lifetime. Its humbling. The immovable objects in particular make me think about how quickly my life is moving along. Watching my kid's excitement in arriving here, I feel that I'm re-living my own childhood.
How much joy I felt in arriving here each summer, anticipating time with my grandparents, playing at harbor beach, taking bracing swims in the ocean, seeing cousins and summer friends, the always present smell of seaweed and fish in the air. York, Maine was settled in the 1630's and is one of the oldest towns in Maine. There is a historical village and interpretive center in the middle of town for visitors to learn about the long, often tragic history of what life was like back then. Early on there was a violent raid by Abenaki Indians which nearly wiped out the town, but the stubborn-as-barnicles will of the English and Scottish settlers stuck it out here and lived to write York's history. Descendants from the early settlers still live, fish and farm here.
In the early 1700's it was a busy working port. York fell on hard times around the time of the revolution, and then in the 1870's it was "found" by hoteliers. They built hotels that catered to members of the wealthy class from big metropolitian areas to the south and midwest. People from New York, Boston, Chicago, Philadelphia and other cities would come to summer resort towns like Bar Harbor and York Harbor where they could have the same niceties and services they were accustomed to back home. York Harbor was a breezy, cooling, healthy escape from hot summers in the cities. They often vacationed with other members of their social set. There were lots of parties to go to, people dressed up to go out for dinner and dancing, in all there was lots of "seeing and being seen".
My Grandfather's mother, Mary and father, Charles John came on the train from Providence, RI for summer vacation each year. They stayed in a cottage that was owned by Harmon Hall, one of three resort hotels. The cottage had no kitchen, so they took their meals at the hotel's communal dining hall. After a few years, they liked it here so well, my great grandmother had a summer house built where she and her son, my grandfather, Charles Richard would come each summer. My grandfather loved this place alot. He was a staunch republican who believed in land preservation way before land trusts were established. He donated land to the town, and was always up on local politics and on keeping York's history factual. Sometimes an article would be written incorrectly in the York Weekly, and he would quickly pen a letter to the editor to set the record straight. I got to spend a few summers here as his companion after he became lame and needed assistance to get in and out of his car or a chair. We used to go out to lunch every day and he would tell me stories about his life or just plain funny stories. He had a gift for storytelling.
After my grandfather married, he and my grandmother would bring their two sons, Charles and Christopher up each summer to stay in that house too, then in 1967, my grandfather and grandmother sold the house and bought another one down the lane, one overlooking the harbor. This is the house I have spent a part of every summer in. 
My parents inherited the house when my grandparents died, and retired here. Built in 1760, this house belonged to a sea captain named Clark who had married Olive Grow (it was her family's house originally). It was added on to at least twice, and had a few other owners, some who passed away here, making for good ghost stories. A house-guest woke up one night and said she saw a ghost sitting in the chair in the room who told her "don't be afraid".
Laying in bed this morning, I hear the same sounds I hear every year; seagulls' impatient calls, songbirds singing to each other, and a lobster man starting up a grumbly boat motor, like an old man clearing his throat. Like the birds, lobster men call to each other on their radios, asking about weather and water conditions outside the harbor. Over the years, when I would hear them, I'd sometimes get up and look out the window to see who was talking, but all I could see was fog. Lobstermen know their own harbor and her moored occupants like the back of their hands, so navigating in thick fog is easy but I wonder if they know that people on shore can hear their every word!
Coming to York Harbor from the midwest was like stepping into another world. Everything was different. The smells, the people, the parties, the clothes, the slang, I was an outsider. When I became a teenager, those differences became more pronounced. But, funny thing is, now that I am an adult, I feel less like an outsider. It must be a combination of age, and familiarity, and because it's my parents home and not my grandparents home, its more comfortable. I don't think my kids feel like outsiders. My parents try hard to relate to their grand-kids and our lives in general are a lot less formal than they were back when my grandparents and their parents lived here.
I remember my grandmother, Elise coming down the stairs to go out at night wearing a Lily Pulitzer dress, a cloud of "Joy" perfume trailing behind her. Before I was born, she had owned a dress shop named "Chez Elise" in Providence, RI and had very definite ideas on style. She used to always look fantastic to me. She had her hair done in town at least two times a week at "Tone and Glow", and would wear a hair net in between visits to keep her hair in top shape. She always had a smart basket shaped purse to carry her necessities in. Pressed powder in a compact with a mirror and a puff for application, bright pink lipstick in a little gold sheath, a handkerchief, her reading glasses and although she would not need it, because I imagine my grandfather paid for their nights out, her wallet. Her patent leather low heeled shoes would click down the painted stairs, she would kiss us goodnight and out she and my grandfather would go. Often my parents would go out with them, and we would have a teenage babysitter. If the weather was good we'd play flashlight tag until we were exhausted, tumble into bed and then get up and hopefully have another day just the same as the last.
On rainy days, we would lounge around at our house or at my friend Tenny's house across the lane reading comics like Archie and Veronica, Batman and Richie Rich, which we had bought at Ursula's general store for .25 an issue. It was a treat to go to Ursulas, open the screen door, bang, hear it slam and plunk down a new comic book and a quarter on the counter. The first time I ever had a hostess pie, it was from Ursulas. I was very curious about them, but my Mom wouldn't buy them so one day when I had money, I bought one. I remember loving the wrapper and the graphics, but being disappointed that it didn't taste better! It was a sad day when her store closed. The building was made into condos. The story has a happy ending though. Ursula ended up opening a gourmet food store where you could find lots of tinned european imports, good bread, meat, cheese, pastries, chocolates and wine.
My room was on the third floor. Back then, the things I loved most about my room were the sink in the corner and the brass bed with creaky springs and a mattress I literally sank into. Above all, I loved the wallpaper.
Its still there, but it has water damage in places, and in some corners it is peeling off the wall. I have begged my Mom and Dad not to take it down, and luckily for me, they haven't. (Did I mention that I have really thoughtful, caring parents?!) Now that I am married and have my own kids, I sleep in a room down the hall from my old hideaway. It too has beautiful,
vintage wallpaper. My eldest has been hankering to sleep in my old room. The sink in the corner is gone, but the eaves are still there, with the same bed, the same mattress, and the same pretty wallpaper.
Now a bit about the food. My grandparents had a cook. Her name was Henni and she had come from Finland to work in America as a young woman. She was married to a Finnish man named Walter. She called him "the Walter" which used to crack me up. Henni was always smiling, and she always had an apron on, except for the few times she and the Walter went to the beach when she would wear a matronly swimsuit and a bathing cap with big rubber flowers all over it. We never tired of Henni's food. Especially her pancakes which were about 2" in diameter and paper thin. A stack of 20 was only about 2" high. Here is her recipe. I have to warn you that they do require a lot of butter! They are best enjoyed right off the pan, but you can freeze the pancake stacks, and then re-heat them wrapped in tinfoil in a 200 degree oven for about 20 minutes.
Henni's Finnish Pancakes
3 eggs
1 C. Flour
3T. sugar
pinch salt
1 C. heavy cream
2 C. milk
Using a whisk, blend all the ingredients together until smooth. Let the batter stand for a few hours before making the pancakes.
Generously butter the pan, and only use a tiny bit of batter to make each pancake. They cook quickly. Each pancake should have a crispy, butter browned, lacy edge, so keep the butter coming...
It was Henni who introduced me to lobster. She used to make a lobster appetizer to serve at the cocktail parties my grandparents would host on the porch overlooking the harbor. The appetizer was just boiled lobster, broken into pieces with toothpicks stuck in each one served with a dip of mayonnaise, horseradish and ketchup. I remember thinking how stange and foreign that platter of pink morsels was, until I had some and was smitten. I have enjoyed eating lobster here my whole life, although lately the only way I really find it appetizing is when it's in a salad, in an omelet or in a roll. 
Even though they are grotesque looking creatures, they sure are buttery and delicious. (Especially when eaten outside in the summer overlooking where they came from!)
Henni isn't alive anymore, but I know she would have enjoyed the way America has embraced the local, gourmet, organic and ethnic food trends in the past 10 years. It's probably what she grew up knowing as normal in Finland.
I still love to eat the classics while I am in Maine. Lobster rolls, steamers, fish chowder, mussels, and all the fresh local summer fruits and vegetables. As the country wide interest in food has intensified, I've seen and tried many new dishes on menus here that I didn't see growing up, like Finnan haddie, local crab cakes, oysters, skate wing and succotash. It's interesting that chefs are reaching back into history to find traditional New England pioneer and native inspired recipes. I love it, it brings the past to the present in a really tangible way.
As much as trends and people change, some things here are enduring, constant and in that way comforting. The ocean, the tide rising and falling, fishing, swimming, boating, eating, reading on the porch, going for walks, crabbing, exploring tide-pools, birdwatching etc... This place is special to me because it is a constant in my life, and always has been a place of happiness. Our family moved around growing up, but we always returned to this house in the summers. My parents are active with The York Land Trust working to make sure that future generations enjoy themselves and this place without the shoreline becoming trampled and overbuilt. I am fortunate. I know that. I appreciate what people before me built, the land they set aside, and the buildings they preserved. My children love this place and look forward to coming here each summer the way I did. It is special here.
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