Perched Over Carter Cove

One longtime local, known to be quite cantankerous, told a neighbor that it was a "dilapidated eyesore," hoping that a storm would take it away. Then there was a summer visitor with shiny hair and unscuffed boots who offered a pretty penny with the hopes of building something "just a little bigger, with modern features." But Kay, with her strong posture, tan cheeks and thick grey braids down her back gave neither of them any attention and brushed off their silly notions, because her little shack was perfect in her eyes.

Her grandfather, William John Carter, passed down his shack to her years ago - putting his rough 5th-grade education handwriting on a piece of lined paper - giving it to the town clerk for safekeeping. It stated simply that if and when the reaper came for him, Kay, his only grandchild, would get the shack.

His time came on a stormy January Tuesday when Kay was 17. She was in class, leaning deep into a history book when the principal came in to tell her that her grandfather's boat had been lost at sea, and all three men were now stars in the night sky.

The shack has been her home for nearly 50 years, and in the decades she's been there, she's replaced pylons, repaired railings, and the efficient storm windows now fill the space where the old panes used to be. It's simple and small but takes very little wood to heat and it's just how she likes it.

Inside is a twin bed-frame tucked up against one of the walls. Crisp sheets are pulled on tight, and a thick wool blanket and a colorful patchwork quilt stretches across it. A menagerie of mismatched pillows leans up against the wall, making it a bed at night but a comfortable sofa during the day.

The kitchen is basic, with a stout two-burner stove, a short wall of open cabinets with short green curtains hanging from tension rods, a small white enamel sink and a refrigerator that is the same height as Kay. Tucked into the corner is her no-fuss bathroom with a low shower that is "just fine", a toilet and a narrow vintage dresser that holds her few things - she washes her hands and brushes her teeth in the kitchen sink.

She has everything she needs and nothing she doesn't, and on clear starry nights she happily sits wrapped up in a giant knit blanket on her deck with her feet stretched out onto the railing as she puffs her "once a week cigarette" and listens to the waves lap up under her house.

It's her perfect home.

---

---

Little escapes to brighten your heart - all stories are fictional and inspired by quiet moments I capture on the coast of Maine.

---