Update: Haditha
For more, read Clarice Feldman's post over at AT.
The Camp
My grandfather built the place several years before I was born and forever biased my opinion regarding what a lake camp should be. Many of my early summers were spent on that beautiful lake outside Houlton, Maine. It’s where I learned to swim and that my little brother didn’t float. He survived his informal baptism and we both became water rats. We eventually outgrew my mother’s lifejacket restriction that resulted from brother’s sinking episode. We also learned to canoe, sail, build rafts, fish, hike, and many other outdoor activities. In short, it was the perfect place to grow up. That was back before the internet, cell phones, cable TV, X-box, Game Boy, etc. Entertainment was self-made but the possibilities seemed endless; who would want to be inside? My grandmother’s worst nightmare was a rainy day. Her only hope of keeping us entertained (quiet) was the small black and white TV wired to an antenna in the top of a tree out back. Options were slim with only three cannels (one Canadian).
Grampy built the place in the late 1950’s from a cedar log home kit, finishing out the interior with knotty pine tongue and grove board paneling. Exposed beams and trusses with shellac-coated wood everywhere, it was like being inside a giant tree. Its original intent was simply as an escape from the heat in town and the phone. My grandfather was a manager at the local oil company and the owners would call him for everything, anytime. The phone line that runs along the shore road still bypasses our camp. He figured if they needed him bad enough on his time off then they could drive out and get him. Apparently his strategy worked fairly well. The layout of the cabin was perfect for my grandparents, having just sent their youngest off to college: a large living/dining area at one end with a master bedroom at the other separated by a central kitchen, bath, and pantry. Occasional guests could be accommodated on the pull-out couch. A few years later their daughter graduated, married my father, and started a family of her own. All of a sudden the floor plan was lacking. My grandfather added a small bedroom off the end of the original structure and decided the boathouse could double as a bunkhouse. The tiny bathroom was Grammy’s domain, literally: the septic/holding tank was small, its size limited by surrounding granite, so the rest of us had to trek into the woods out back to the outhouse. Dark, creepy, and full of mosquitoes, the outhouse is my only bad memory from my childhood summers in Maine.
The lake is typical of northern New England: cold and clear, fed by streams and brooks carrying forest run-off. It’s home to brown trout, perch, pickerel, and even a few land-locked salmon. On any given day you may see bald eagles, osprey, loons, and occasionally a moose if you take the trouble to paddle quietly back into the shallow flowage.
Thus my definition of a proper camp was formed by my childhood: a log cabin surrounded by white birch trees and granite boulders on a gravel track through the woods barely wide enough to drive down, all sitting on a lake so clean that it was your water source. Then I moved south, far south to the land of red clay and brown lakes where “camp” was a place you sent your kids for two weeks. I still remember my first reaction to the southern version of a lake: “I can’t possibly swim in that hot, brown stuff.” I’ve adapted although I still return to the family camp in Maine every summer for my fix. Heading north on I-95 out of Bangor the traffic starts to thin, the unmistakable smells of the northwoods permeate the car and my life slows down to a much healthier pace. I’m headed to the camp where the sounds of the wind in the trees, the water on the rocks, and the laughter of children playing are guaranteed to refresh the soul. Twenty minutes from town and more importantly, equidistant from some great trout streams where more often than not you’re the only one fishing.
The lake has changed over the years. Many of the camps have been replaced or converted into year-round residences and the local power company has had to upgrade service to the lake to keep pace with demand. But for the most part it hasn’t changed all that much: Houlton is small and so is the lake, facts which protect it from the development pressures seen by larger bodies of water in more heavily populated areas. We still get three channels, one Canadian, via the old antenna tied in the top of the tree, although they’re now in color and there’s a hook-up for the portable DVD player in case of rain.
In the absence of clear facts, most people know that a rush to judgment serves no one. What word, then, properly characterizes the recent media coverage of Haditha, when analysis stretches beyond shotgun conclusions to actually attributing motive and assigning blame? No rational process supports a statement like: “We don’t know what happened, but we know why it happened and whose fault it is.”

Operation Overlord, the invasion of German-occupied France in June 1944, was staggering in its scope. In one night and one day, 175,000 fighting men and their equipment, including 50,000 vehicles of all types, ranging from motorcycles to tanks and armored bulldozers, were transported across sixty to a hundred miles of open water and landed on a hostile shore against intense opposition. They were either carried by or supported by 5,333 ships and craft of all types and almost 11,000 airplanes.The numbers are certainly impressive as the image above hints but equally staggering are the losses suffered by the allied invasion force, estimated at 4900 on that first day and of those over 2,000 were on Omaha beach alone. Almost five thousand men killed in the initial offensive. What is truly amazing, given the task of penetrating The Wall, an imposing combination of obstacles, wire, trenches, fortifications and guns which the Germans spent four years constructing, is that the number of casualties was not grossly higher. We've all seen the movies, up to and including Saving Private Ryan; the men storming those beaches were boys, eighteen to twenty years old, and most had never seen combat before. What they faced when the landing craft ramps dropped is unimaginable. Yet out they went. And they kept going, men dropping left and right, until they had penetrated Hitler's wall. All along those beaches young men, mostly volunteer soldiers, fought their way across the bloody beach, up the cliffs, through the trenches, pill boxes, and gun mounts until their section was secure. They could have turned back or taken cover numerous times and any sane man could not have blamed them for doing so. But they pushed forward at great peril to their own lives so that democracy would not be overrun. Over the ensuing months they continued the push until the beast was back in pandora's box.
But when the test came, when freedom had to be fought for or abandoned, they fought. They were soldiers of democracy. They were the men of D-Day, and to them we owe our freedom.Think about what could have been had Hitler gone on unchecked. To the men who so bravely and selflessly gave their lives on this day so many years ago, and to their families, our eternal thanks. Without their sacrifice the world would be a much darker place today. Let's do what we must within the context of our generation to ensure that their sacrifice was not in vain. May we have the same strength they had to stand up and press ever forward against the evil that threatens democracy.