Now that summer is here, this song is being sung up and down the coast of Maine. The kids are out of school and the population of our towns and villages doubles, sometimes even triples. Most of us who live year- round on the coast of Maine can ever figure out where all these people stay. But I found out that the answer is simple: They live their summer lives in the never-ending network of summer trailer camps.
The stories that come out of these camps are some of the most talked about of the season. In fact, many of these stories keep us Mainers warm with laughter during the coldest of winter nights.
The septic systems are the cause of some of the most unusual anecdotes since the systems at most camps leave much to be desired. The main pipe servicing all of the trailers of most camps is often the same size as one for a medium-sized house. So the campers are warned not to flush at the same time. I've often wondered if they had some sort of communication system set up behind the toilet seats for this purpose.
For the past fifteen or so years a mountain of a man named Jack Dwyer is seen walking through the town at exactly 6:35 am from Memorial Day weekend through Labor Day weekend. He has a Boston Globe tucked under his arm and his destination is always The Goldenrod Restaurant. I am told that he never buys much for breakfast but he always leaves the restaurant looking a bit emptier than when he walked in. It is rumored that the owners of the camp recommended this activity.
What these camps lack in sanitation they more then make up for in security. The camps are always constructed so that the owner's house, notice I didn't say trailer, sits beside the only opening to the camp.
The house is flanked by a large propane tank and ice machine which the inhabitants of the camp are expected to use even though the price of these necessities is three times more expensive than what is offered outside the camp. But if the campers plan to return the following year, they had better support all the facilities of the camp.
The entire camp is usually surrounded by an old yet very functional rusted fence. The warning system set up for sanitation must be similar to the system that warns the owners of the camp that someone is entering their domain. Every time someone enters their area, they appear with a crocodile grin and an application for entry in their hands.
The owners always seem to be a husband and wife team. He is usually retired from years of service from some utility company and she just lets her family increase from four to four hundred every summer season.
He is seen by his personal golf cart at the front of the camp wearing a white baseball cap which usually has gold military wings attached to its rim. The wife can be distinguished from the crowds of campers by the number of wrinkles created by the hours of worry concerning the profit margin of the camp.
How they became the owners of the camp is inconsequential when compared to how they run the camp. German prison camps have nothing on the controls and rules of the seasonal trailer camp.
Adding to the toilet flushing regulations are rules covering the number of cars allowed in front of each trailer and the number of people allowed to visit at any particular time. Both of these conditions do not come without a price of at least $10 a visitor and up to $20 a vehicle. The visitor must, of course, leave at a respectable hour because no one is allowed to stay the night. That could mean an extra flush.
The uneducated visitors would think these rules unenforceable. But they never heard of the "golf cart brigade". Their are usually two or three of these vehicles depending on the size of the camp. These carts are usually operated by the sons of the owners of the camp. I have never seen a daughter operate one of them. The lead vehicle operated by the owner of the camp is always the fastest and the quietest. It has a radio used to inform the command post if it is necessary to close the gates, thus preventing any escape by retreating visitors who've not paid their fee.
The surrounding homes and cottages are always buzzing with groups of people enjoying their vacations or weekends. But a party at the trailer camp is out of the question. The residents of the camp are expected to enjoy their summers in total silence. They are expected to leave their summer domain early in the morning and return minutes before bedtime.
An outsider wonders how these camps exist with all their rules and regulations. But every year the toilets start to work, the water goes on, the electricity gets hooked up, the phone rings, and all is well once again in trailerville.
Jim Fabiano is a free lance writer living in York Beach, Maine
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Last Updated: July 2, 1996