Explore the Treasures of this Antiques Lover's Tiny Maine Cabin

We called it the silk purse project, because it started life as a sow’s ear. As far as the actual structure, the tiny, single-story camp, built in 1950 and abandoned for years, didn’t have much going for it. But it was clear why its owners clung to the place for almost a half century. The idyllic pond. The majestic mountain. A perfectly imperfect slamming screen door. The gloating bullfrogs. The loon calls. The old-school floating dock just begging for a game of “jump or dive.” How could anyone let that go?

We had a secret weapon in the family. Design/build team Tom Young and his wife, my sister Mary Ann, who live in the village nearby, did to our new little camp what they do best: transform rather than tear down. In just a few months, Red Cottage (named for the color of its trim and roof shingles) was a polite story taller, its asphalt shingle siding replaced with cedar to blend in with the surrounding pines and birches. Inside, we bathed the walls in white paint and, over the course of two decades, changed the floor colors a few times before we arrived at a combination of stone, sun yellow, and chocolate for the stairs.

For almost two decades, my husband, Stephen, and I, and our sons, Finn and James (now 17 and 14, respectively), made our ritual summer exodus from steamy Brooklyn, New York, to our beloved camp in Maine. The late-June, eight-hour drive inevitably turned to 12, because there was a house to furnish, and there was no better resource than the flea markets, antiques cooperatives, and tag sales so ubiquitous along the coast. The truth is, every single piece of furniture in the cottage—apart from a pair of chests of drawers from Ikea that we painted slate gray and raised up off the floor by adding feet—came out of those drives.

We would arrive under an ink-black sky sprayed with stars. The crickets, loons, and bullfrogs owned the night. In the early years, I would steal swims across the pond while the babies slept, all that fresh air guaranteeing they would not awaken until I returned to our dock.

Over the years, we fiddled with the downstairs layout, ultimately taking down the wall that once separated the living space from what was a very dark bedroom. By adding vintage picture windows to take advantage of the morning light, we created an ideal breakfast room and opted to paint the floor bright yellow to make the room glow. When we found the roomy round table with lazy Susan, we felt fortunate to have just the right spot for it.

Every room came together organically; we never had a plan. Buying pieces we loved seemed like the wisest approach. What we ruthlessly tried to avoid was turning this simple, sweet shack into something it was not. There is no dishwasher, no microwave, no washing machine, no television. There is a comfortable sofa with a washable cotton canvas slipcover, great reading chairs that are easy to orient to a roaring fire (not unusual on a late August night) or to join a conversation, bookcases (built by Stephen) filled with books, and good lighting, including a driftwood floor lamp snagged at a barn sale.

When I think about what really brings us joy in these 950 square feet, it comes down to the rituals we create in it. The summer-long Monopoly games, the kids furiously reading their Hardy Boys mysteries, the countless helpings of blueberry pie, the silent nights, the crisp cotton bed sheets against sun-tinged skin. As soon as the boys could stand, we began marking their growth on a door jamb in the kitchen. Every time I pass by it, I stop in my tracks. I know where the time has gone, and aren’t we all the luckier for it?