Back Home

 We made it home safe and sound to our beloved steam bath of Short Pump on Saturday afternoon. The battery in my Cadillac was dead. While removing the many sticks and pine cones which covered my yard while we were away, sweat dropped from the end of my nose like a leaky faucet. When we arrived at the Lodge yesterday morning for church, we were told—cheerfully—that the AC was “struggling a bit.” Now, this morning at 6:40, there are five men stomping atop our house ripping our 28 year old roof apart. There are gigantic tarpaulins draped over the shrubs and large hulking pieces of shingles raining down from the sky. Each of these five men are wearing long pants with long sleeved hooded sweatshirts. In a few hours it will be a 94 degree sauna out there.

Why did we come home again??

I’ll tell you why we came home. Because we love this place. We have been the only people to ever live in this house. This is where we put down roots in the world. This is where we raised our kids. Our lives have been planted in this soil for nearly three decades. 

And then there’s the matter of our neighbors. The photograph attached to this post is what greeted us after Saturday’s 9 hour drive. I can picture Jamie and the girls on their knees in their back yard driveway painting the letters. It’s happened many times over the years…we arrive home after 6 weeks in Maine and they have plastered some sort of creative welcome home message somewhere on the property. At some point this week we will go next door and give the kids their Maine presents. Years ago they were easy to shop for, now they are all so damned grown up it’s much more difficult. Next year there will be a new family living there. I’m sure they will be lovely, but I’d rather not think about that right now.

Later this morning I will be making my way over to the Cafe at Hope. That’s another thing I’ve missed, that place and those people.

So, as much as we love Maine, as important as our time there is to us each year, home is always here, waiting for us. We slip back into it like a silk glove.

Early Departure

 For the first time ever Pam and I voluntarily agreed to cut short our Maine trip by 24 hours. We were scheduled to leave this morning for Short Pump but yesterday there arrived a perfect storm of misery which we interpreted as a direct message from the State of Maine that we were no longer welcomed. For yesterday was the hottest day of our wonderful 6 weeks, a blistering 90 degrees with humidity unaccustomed to this place—in a lake house with no air conditioning! Since it was packing day we were traipsing around the place sweating like pigs. Around 3:00 in the afternoon I read the room and the tea leaves and concluded that there was no chance that my wife was going to make it through a night without AC. So we made the decision to throw everything in the car and hit the road a day early, drive as far as we could and sleep in an air-conditioned hotel—which explains what I’m doing typing the post in a Hampton Inn in Sturbridge, Massachusetts at 5:30 in the morning. This morning, Saturday the 8th of July, we have a 10 hour drive ahead of us before we can sleep in our own bed. Piece of cake.

One last thing about our Maine summer. I travelled here with Lucy’s remains. This was our first trip without her in nearly ten years since she passed away earlier this year. The idea was that since this was her favorite place on earth, the lake would be her final resting place. 

But, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I know it’s silly. It’s her ashes in a jar. But each time I thought about sprinkling them in the lake she loved so much I just couldn’t do it, I couldn’t bear to part with her. So I will bring the jar back home.

I’ve had dogs all my life. I have loved them all. But Lucy was different in ways I can’t entirely explain. I think I will miss her for the rest of my life.

The Last Week Vibe

 This is our last week in Maine for the summer. Just writing that made my stomach turn over a little. For only the third time in the last 38 days…it’s raining. Great news for this drought-ridden state, but not great for the feng shui when it’s already your last week. 

Yesterday we decided to take a road trip to a part of Maine we had never been before. We don’t do this very often because it involves actually getting in a car and driving away from the lake. So when we do it’s usually on a day where the weather is sub-optimal. Yesterday was to be one such day with heavy fog and low clouds. 

Our destination was an island in the Penobscot Bay called Deer Isle, and the primary coastal town at the southernmost tip called Stonington. As the crow flies it is only 20 miles across the bay from Camden. But you can get nowhere in Maine as the crow flies.Instead it was a 66 mile drive which took an hour and a half and took us through a fair share of gorgeous scenery and several communities that seemed locked in a battle to determine who could construct the largest pile of junk in their front yard. I mean I’m talking some world class junkyardery. I chose this particular island to visit because I have seen many homes come up for sale here over the years nestled romantically in emerald green coves. And the town of Stonington looked quaint and charming in all the pictures, and while Stonington was indeed quite charming, we now know that buying a house on this island won’t be happening anytime soon. For one thing, if either one of us had a stroke on that island they would have to medevac us onto the mainland via floatplane! Although Stonington might not have adequate life-saving capabilities, it has a killer Opera House! And in its defense I had one of the finest bowls of clam chowder I have ever eaten at a place called 27 Fathoms. 

But life is about more than clam chowder. It’s also about more than sardines, although had we not made the trip yesterday we would have been unaware that Maine was more than just Vacationland, but Sardineland as well. We know this courtesy of the 20 foot tall fisherman guy holding up a massive roadside sign informing us of this fact. I have attached the picture for your edification.

So today it is pouring rain and that danged puzzle is over there on the dinner table mocking my incompetence. I have my work cut out for me.

Becoming a Puzzler

 I have never been a puzzler. Every year since forever there’s always a puzzle table on vacation. I always stand there for a couple minutes watching others sorting through the pile of chopped up pieces of art astonished at their patience. Every once in a while I would spot a piece and snap it in to place just to let them know that I was capable, then I would slip away and leave them to it. But lately—“lately” meaning this year—I have found myself the designated puzzler in this house and for the life of me I can’t figure out why. 

For one thing it is at once satisfying and excruciating, this puzzling business. Finding a piece and slipping it into place brings a brief but visceral thrill. But the searching process feels a bit like sorting through a dumpster looking for something decent to eat. The longer it takes the more frustrated I become. Just about the time I’m about to give up I will stumble upon a couple of pieces that fit together which leads to an embarrassing fist pump and a devious giggle.

What makes this new puzzling experience so strange is the fact that it requires something that I have always struggled with—sitting for extended periods of time. And yet, there I have been at the puzzling table night after night, mumbling to myself as my backside starts to cramp up and my back tightens, telling myself about how ridiculous it all is but somehow not being able to stand up and walk away.

So far I’ve completed one 1000 piece puzzle and one 500 piece puzzle. I am currently engaged in mortal combat with yet another 1000 piece puzzle which, at the rate I am going, might not got finished by the time we roll out of here in eight days.

So, I suppose I’m a puzzler now. Pam comes over every once in a while to offer encouragement, “Oh look at you. You finished the dog’s face! Good job, honey.” I can’t decide whether or not she’s seriously paying me a compliment or being sarcastic. Ron and Bill would have put this particular puzzle together in four or five hours. I’m on day four!

Maybe it’s an aging thing? Don’t get me wrong, I’m still plenty busy up here. I’ve gone fishing every day, I’ve put probably 50 miles on the kayak, I’ve played a couple rounds of golf and stayed faithful to my exercise regimen. But at night after dinner I find myself hunched over at the puzzle table like a man possessed. Part of it is the fact that the internet up here must be powered by a half dozen field mice racing around a tread wheel somewhere. To call it slow would be an insult to turtles. So scrolling is not an option, and watching television is very hit or miss.

So…I guess I’m a puzzler now.

Missing My Hope Peeps

 I love everything about being in Maine for six weeks every summer. The rhythms we fall into up here are comforting, the pace of living here rejuvenates. The views we are greeted with are new every morning and make you think that anything is possible.

But today is Sunday, and every Sunday I miss my church and the family of people who make it special. Actually it’s one of the few things about home that I miss. Every year when we get home we realize how much we missed our house, our neighbors and our trusted routines, but we never think of any of them while we’re here. It’s different with my church. Each Sunday I think of them and miss the familiar faces. 

This is 2026. I can livestream the service…and I do, but it’s not the same. The music sounds tinny and off a beat. There are no cookies. The cameras don’t show me the faces of the people I love the most at that place because all of them are busy on the other side of the cameras. I don’t hear their voices, I can’t shake their hands or hug them. The rest of the world learned during COVID what I have always known. There is no substitute for the gathering, no replacement for the assembly.

I will listen to the sermon. Last week it was Pete, the week before that Kyle, before that David.  No telling who it will be today. Summer plays havoc with the speaker roster. Those guys take vacations too. This particular sermon series hasn’t been my favorite, but there are 3,000 people who show up every Sunday at Hope. I’m sure that there are some in that crowd for which the current series has been a godsend. That’s the way it works in a community as large and diverse as ours. We all hear the sermons differently, but each is a blessing. But watching it on a computer screen isn’t the same as being there in the midst of it. It is possible to hear a sermon but not feel it.

But I am grateful for the technology. After a day on this gorgeous lake I will settle down sometime this evening and check it out. Meanwhile, I’ll be thinking of my Hope Peeps…and missing them.

Only in Maine!!

 Last year I showed up at Rockland Golf Club at 6:00am without a tee time or any golf clubs. This is not an unusual circumstance for me while I’m in Maine. Usually I play three times while I’m here, each time in the wee hours of the morning, with rented clubs and usually by myself where it only takes me two and a half hours to walk 18 holes. But last year on July 27th I was paired with two random guys, Al and Chris. Had a blast playing with them. Apparently they met five years ago when the two of them got paired together and have been playing together in Maine ever since. Well, after last year I was added to their group. I got a text a few days ago from them asking if I wanted to meet them this morning at 6:40 for a round at Rockland. Of course I said yes!

It’s profoundly embarrassing that here I am in my seventeenth month of retirement and it had been an entire year since I last played golf—with these same two dudes on this same golf course. All I had with me was a zip-lock bag full of golf balls. The course has no driving range so my first swing was on the first tee box, a 520 yard par five, which I laced right down the middle. Such a weird game.

Three hours later I lipped out from five feet for what would have been a par to shoot 88. I walked the entire way, a six mile hike up and down lots of hills. My playing partners, being a lot smarter than me, rode in a golf cart like reasonable people do.  We are playing again next Wednesday at a new course they will be introducing me to somewhere up near Augusta, a 45 minute drive from the lake.

After golf, since I was only a few minutes away from Ruckus Donuts, I dropped by and picked up two boxes of four donuts, one box for the hard working people at On The Water in Maine, and the other box for us. It’s currently 5:00 in the afternoon and there isn’t much left. However, I have discovered yet another fun fact about the aging process. Walking 18 holes of golf does not mix with fishing from a kayak. Apparently you can do one or the other on the same day…but not both. 

On another front, my cell phone beeped me earlier today, a “weather warning” for our area of Maine. I’m thinking, Wait…it’s 75 degrees and sunny. What could possibly constitute a warning?? —Please DO NOT enjoy yourself TOO MUCH. Then I saw the problem—apparently, the delightfully warm temperatures might have the effect of making people think that the water isn’t actually a freezing cold 55 degrees!! I have attached Photographic evidence, or you probably wouldn’t ‘t believe me. 

Only in Maine!!

Breaking My Silence on a HUGE Issue

 Despite the fact that I am currently on vacation and in general avoiding the news, sometimes a story comes along that demands my attention. Vacation or not, some things are so important, so potentially disruptive to our lives, a blogger like myself feels a certain responsibility, an obligation to address the issue that is utmost in the minds of my fellow Americans at this moment in time. Which issue am I referring to? Let me quote the Center for Disease Control:

A multistate outbreak of cyclosporiasis—a parasitic infection causing, EXPLOSIVE WATERY DIARRHEA* and stomach cramps.

Needless to say, this story got my attention. I mean, the very last thing I want to experience while on vacation is a case of EWD. My first response to this scary story was to ask the obvious question—“Was Taco Bell involved?” Upon a deeper dive into the story my fears were justified when I discovered that many of the cases were in fact connected to the historically bowel-stewing fast food franchise which I have successfully avoided for the past 30 years. The culprit, according to the CDC, was lettuce imported from—where else? Mexico.—and processed by an American company, Taylor Farms. Over the weekend, the CDC linked what has become known as raging diarrhea in the press, to the company who immediately placed a recall on all suspect lettuce. Of course, in a turn of events which should have come as a surprise to absolutely no one, the CDC then backtracked on their previous conclusion about Taylor farms and contaminated lettuce, saying that the test that had precipitated the recall turned out to be a false positive. Stinks for Taylor Farms. But as the government scientists proved back during the COVID fiasco, nothing has a shorter lifespan than a CDC press release.

Still, the very thought that there could be thousands of people out there about to be overcome with days of EWD, up to two weeks after a trip to Taco Bell sounds positively horrifying. Usually the symptoms of a meal at that place present in less than 24 hours, occasionally before you even make it back home! Now if you were stupid enough to toss back three tacos at midnight after setting through The Odyssey, you’re on the clock for 14 days?? What kind of fresh hell is this? It’s 100 degrees outside all over the country. We’ve been forced to watch soccer for the past 30 days. Donald Trump is in the White House and the Mayor of New York is a Communist. Haven’t we all suffered enough at this point?

* Is there any other kind? I mean, isn’t diarrhea, by definition…watery?