My Week at the Gaylord Hotel

It was a long week in Nashville, a universe away from normal. Living for four days in a place like the Gaylord Hotel is like taking a master class in cognitive dissonance…and the perfect place to be if your goal is to walk a minimum of 10,000 steps a day. Consider:

1. The Gaylord Hotel is too big. The massive layout is 2.1 MILLION square feet. It is nearly impossible to get from one place to another without a 10 minute walk. That’s perfectly fine but quite difficult for anyone over 75 years old or anyone carrying any unnecessary weight. 

2. If such a thing is possible, the Gaylord is too beautiful. The architecture, the gardens, the meandering paths winding along side the disturbingly real fake river are breathtaking to the point of distraction.

3. How much anything costs and how much anything is worth is of course two completely separate things. Many factors are at play from manufacturing costs to demand, level of scarcity, plus what the market for any good is able to bear. But when I needed lip balm and found a tiny sleeve of Blistex at a hotel shop then heard the lady say, “That will be $6.94…” I felt victimized. 

4. When you are attending a conference with 2,700 other attendees, you get to see the faces of people who do the same thing you do for a living at every turn for 96 hours and you hope and pray that you look and act different than many of them.

5. On the other hand, in delightful contrast, you realize just how special are the people from your own office. The people you work with are everything you knew them to be—smart, conscientious, thoughtful, and fun.

6. For everything there is a season, the old prophet says. Well, for me, roaming around from one honky-tonk to another on Broadway in downtown Nashville’s season has long past. A little of that activity goes a very long way. I mean…yeah, some of the bands were great, and the vibe and the history is interesting. But walking shoulder to shoulder with drunk strangers unable to communicate without screaming just isn’t a lot of fun—if you too are not drunk. Making the experience even more disconcerting were the presence of what must have been at least three dozen…

7. Homeless. This was not my first visit to Broadway, having done this a couple other times years ago with Patrick and Sarah. Back then there were a fair number of homeless people, but this time they lined the streets. They were everywhere, at the entrance to every bar, every restaurant. And this time a new wrinkle—almost all of them had a dog curled up forlornly at their feet. The homeless were almost all seated and few even held signs, most simply had a coffee can on the sidewalk in front of them gazing up at the throngs of revelers, hoping for a handout. It was as if they were saying…If you can’t have pity on me, do it for my puppy. Now, I know that the city of Nashville has probably a dozen programs to assist people in this condition. I also know that some of these folks are professional panhandlers and that I would be shocked at how much they haul in from gullible rubes like me. For this reason, I have always chosen not to encourage grifters. However, seeing them always cuts me on the inside. The juxtaposition of the partying masses with end of the road desperation is jolting. I watched one particular guy for probably an entire minute in front of some club and in all that time he never blinked his eyes, just sat there, emotionless, carelessly scratching his sleeping dog’s head. It’s the one clear image I have of Broadway…that one homeless guy, either a manipulative panhandler or a man at the end of his rope, closer to death than redemption.

There were plenty of bright moments on my trip. Best of all I got to see these guys…

Photo  Credit, the beautiful and talented Sarah Dunnevant

Patrick and I got to go to dinner and attend the Grand Old Opry on somebody else’s dime and we had a great night doing so.

I also had company on the drive back and forth, a very old friend of mine and the new kid, a former offensive lineman for the Hampden-Sydney Tigers who assured me for weeks that it would be an “Epic road trip!!”. An hour in to the trip down, THIS happened:

In the kid’s defense, he was able to rally, and despite having the bladder of a teenage girl, he eventually proved to be an excellent wing man. His taste in music was impressive in one so young and inexperienced, so much so that I have come to suspect that he is actually a 60 year old man trapped in a 26 year old’s body. But, then again, that 26 year old body has a 16 year old brain…so the boy is a work in progress.

So, the week is over and I am safely back home, reunited with Pam and Lucy, eager for the kiddos coming around tonight with their costumes. 

Finally, a few pictures of the Gaylord:

The view from my room.

All week, workers were decorating for Christmas. This was the first ornament I saw them put in place.

Soon, they were everywhere.

Root Canal Without Anesthetic

I would like to personally thank the Atlanta Braves for sparing the country the ghastly horror of having to endure a World Series between the Houston Cheaters and the Tinseltown Celebrities. We all would have found ourselves on the horns of an existential dilemma, ie…which of those two despicable franchises to support? Now, thanks to the Braves bullpen, we all have been saved. I will be cheering mightily for the Atlanta Braves, something I did regularly years ago when my hometown played host to their Triple AAA team, the Richmond Braves. Once the R-Braves left town and Washington DC got a team for the first time in forever, I began supporting the Nationals as my National League team. So this temporary allegiance to the A-Braves brings back a few fond memories.

If the Astros prevail I will be severely disappointed, clinging as I do to that ancient incantation…cheaters never prosper. However, there is one thing about the Astros that I don’t hate…their manager, Dusty Baker. The single silver lining of an Astros World Series victory would be that Dusty will have his manager’s championship to go along with the one he won as a player with the Dodgers in 1982, and as a consequence end up in the Hall of Fame. My connection with Dusty Baker goes back five decades, back when he was a blade thin outfielder with speed and power playing for the Richmond Braves, on his way to a distinguished big league career. I watched him play a couple of games at old Parker Field, probably in 1970 or ‘71, on a team that also included two other future big league stars…Ralph Garr and Darrell Evans. Now, fifty years later, he’s still hip deep in the game of baseball, managing a team within four wins of the title. 

But other than that, nothing good would come from an Astros victory. Go Braves!!

On another topic… I leave on Tuesday headed down to Nashville to attend a business conference for four days at the Gaylord Hotel. This particular affair is an annual event that I normally boycott for a variety of reasons, chief among them being the preponderance of meetings. There are far too many to count, one hour long gauntlet of dull monotones after another for four days. But, my industry loves this sort of thing, and a surprising number of guys like me wouldn't ever miss the chance to attend. Guys who do what I do for a living are all really in to networking and cocktail parties and making small talk with a thousand strangers. I’m perfectly capable of doing all those things. In fact, I’m pretty good at all three. But, after 38 years, I’m kinda done with schmoozing. Basically, I’d rather have a root canal without anesthetic. My rule has been, I attend these things once every five years. Its all my disposition can safely handle. The fact that the meeting is being held in Nashville made the decision easier, since it means I can visit with Patrick and Sarah while I’m there. 

I will drive instead of fly. That way, I have my car with me and can bolt anytime I want, the conference equivalent of sitting on the aisle seat at church. However, as a consequence of driving, I have been roped in to taking two passengers from my office along for the ride. One is a guy who has been in the business a year longer than I have, has the money to fly but is too cheap. The other guy is brand new in the business, just a kid really, who is super amped for what he refers to as our ROAD TRIP, BABY!! All I an say is the kid better have a strong bladder or he’s gonna rue the day he hitched a ride with me!

So, for everyone out there who considers me a friend…pray for me this week. I’m gonna need it.

Creativity Engine is on the Fritz

Writing is funny. Sometimes for me it is literally the easiest thing in the world. Half the time I feel like I could write a story on demand, out of thin air. But every once in a while it becomes hard, nearly impossible. Back in August of 2020, six months in to COVID, I started writing a story. At the time I wasn’t sure what it was going to be, a short story or novel. All I had was the basic premise and the broad outline of a protagonist. With a lot of lockdown/quarantine time on my hands, I started writing. I blazed through the first dozen chapters rather quickly. The story had exploded into something far more complex. It would be a novel.

Then around Christmas of 2020, I took a break and sat it aside for a couple months. The new year was starting and I was busy, but the characters were never very far from my mind, always dancing around in my head trying to get me to come and play. Finally at the beginning of this summer I took up the story again. One chapter after another poured forth from wherever it is that they come from. Every time I sat down to write the words came with uninterrupted speed and clarity. By August the thing had 24 chapters and 50,000 words. 

Then, one day everything stopped. The gears of the creativity engine had seized up and no matter how determined I was to write, nothing came….nothing.

So, there it sits, frozen, leaden, atrophied. I read random chapters occasionally trying to find the spark. Nothing. I still love the story and care a lot about the characters, but for the last two months, I got nothing.

This sort of thing never happens to me. The other three novels I’ve written were mostly uninterrupted 6-8 month journeys where I only took a few weeks off to tend to more pressing matters—like earning a living. This thing is different. I’ve hit a wall so formidable that I’m afraid I might never break through. Maybe this is where the story just runs out of steam and dies. Just because its never happened to me before doesn’t mean it never does happen. An unfinished story…I’m sure there are a million of them out there.

Fourteen months ago, this is how it started with this one paragraph introduction…

Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s life had been an unqualified success right up to the day he took a drink from an unopened bottle of water he found while jogging in a park less than a mile from his house. At least that was the initial conclusion which most of the family had settled upon after every other explanation for his implosion had failed to withstand logical scrutiny. So bizarre were the circumstances surrounding his metamorphosis that a family of educated people had been reduced to believing an unproven and unprovable theory involving a random bottle of water that had never been found or tested for toxins that might have explained how an otherwise circumspect 56 year old man could have so suddenly and spectacularly gone off the rails. The Fitzgerald family, being as unaccustomed to and unprepared for scandal as any tribe in North America had not handled the drama well. Accusations began to fly within the family, blaming everyone from his wife of 30 years, to his impossible to please father, to his meddling mother, all the way down to his disrespectful children. But, the writer has gotten ahead of himself. The reader by now is naturally wondering about the nature of Daniel Sebastian Fitzgerald’s metamorphosis, and not nearly as concerned with the infighting of his extended family. I will attempt to tell the tale honestly without bias or judgement, for in the day and age in which we live, this story needs to be told.

Can’t Miss the Wedding

Yesterday was the last day we could RSVP for the upcoming wedding of the daughter of dear friends of ours. Pam asks, “So, what do we tell them?” She didn’t really need to ask since both of us knew that the answer was going to be…Yes, of course we will be going to the wedding. The only question was whether we would fly or drive, the venue being 650 miles away. Turns out that once you account for the cost of two flights, a two day car rental and the hassles associated with airports and connections etc. its just not worth it. So another road trip is in the works for us.

Here’s the deal…the older I get, the fewer things I want to miss. There comes a time when it occurs to you that some things are just too important. You just don’t want to miss the assembly. You can’t miss the concert, the play, the ballgame…the wedding. When my kids were little there was something every week it seemed like. But you just couldn’t miss one. You never wanted your kids to look out in the audience or the stands and not see you. Now, I’m counting the days until I have concerts and ballgames for my grandkids to attend. Until then, when a girl you have known, loved and worried about for the better part of 15 years gets married…well, its time for a road trip!

Life is short. Time is fleeting. Don’t miss the weddings.

What Kind of Woman Did I Marry?

It was late in the afternoon on Saturday. I was driving home from Maine on Interstate 81 south of Scranton. I had been on the road for nine hours already, bone tired, hamstrings barking. I still had a hundred miles left before our hotel in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. But, I had caught my second wind because Red Sox/Astros game 2 was on the radio. Now, with baseball to distract me, the throbbing pains in my butt and back from driving over 500 miles seemed to have diminished. Then my wife did something so out of character…she asked me a baseball question. First, some context.

In the first inning of the game, J.D. Martinez had hit a grand slam home run for the Red Sox. It was now the second inning and once again the Red Sox had the bases loaded with Rafael Devers at the plate. Pam, who is famous for her sports cluelessness, turns to me and asks a surprisingly prescient question:

“What are the odds that the Red Sox could hit another grand slam now after hitting one last inning?”

For a brief moment I was stunned that A. She had been paying attention to what happened an inning ago, and B. That she was even aware that the bases were now loaded. Once I recovered from the surprise I answered something like, “I suppose its possible, but not very likely. Grand slams are extremely rare, especially in the playoffs.”

What I didn’t know was that the radio feed of the game we were listening to had an almost 45 second delay from the television broadcast, and back in Short Pump my sister Paula was watching and had just sent Pam a text informing her that Mr. Devers had, in fact, hit yet another grand slam. So, my wife was basically messing with me. But, thats not all she was doing. She was also secretly taking photographs of me, first in nervous apprehension, and second in celebration…

This is the kind of woman I married.

Pride Goeth Before a Fall

Yesterday morning around 7:00 was the moment of truth. I had been putting it off ever since we got back from Maine. It was time…time to step on the scale. After two weeks of eating incredible food, devouring snacks of every description, and enjoying more adult beverages than is my custom, I was expecting the worst. Sure, I had lots of exercise, spent almost every day outside in the fresh air and all…but all that bread!! I turned on the shower, brushed my teeth while the water warmed up, then reluctantly stepped up to the plate and…nothing. I had gained…nothing. I was the exact weight I was before I left! I celebrated with a fist pump and stood under the hot water for a minute, about as self satisfied and cocky as I have been in a long time. 

…Then while reaching for the body wash I pulled a muscle in my neck. I could practically hear my mother’s voice, “Pride goeth before a fall.”

So, I have been in pain ever since, head cocked ever so slightly port side, a hand under my chin propping my head up to ease the spasms. However uncomfortable this has been, it has not prohibited me from feasting on post season baseball and the incredible runs being put on by the Red Sox and the Braves. I have enjoyed every minute of these games. I can’t remember watching a team hit quite as well as the Red Sox are hitting this post season. And watching any team beat the Dodgers has been glorious. Sure, I have my qualms with certain aspects of modern baseball. Eduardo Rodriguez goes 6 innings and gives up three runs and you’d think he was the reincarnation of Cy Young to hear the announcers gushing. Bob Gipson, Sandy Koufax, and Mickey Lolitch must be shaking their heads in disbelief at what passes for dominant post season pitching these days. But, I quibble. Its still baseball and I still love it.

Saying Goodbye to Maine

Friday will be our last day here, bringing to an end what has been seven weeks in Maine for 2021. As I was on the lake fishing this morning I tried to calculate how much time I have actually spent up here in my 63 years. It’s fuzzy and all runs together in my memory, all the trips to Webb Lake with the kids, and the ten years of coming to Midcoast. The best I could come up was just a couple weeks shy of an entire year. Then, this afternoon, I started reading a book by the famous Maine man of letters, John N. Cole. He makes this statement which I found both jarring and profound, “I have not lived all my life in Maine, but Maine is the only place I’ve lived my life.” Although it is not completely true for me since I love Virginia and am proud to be a Virginian—a title that still means something—it is at least partially true. The time I spend here has had a greater impact on me than any place I have ever been. I think differently here, eat differently, do different sorts of things. Life feels different, less rigorous with fewer anxious moments. Time loses its relentless grip, freeing you up to stay in the moment…something that I have always struggled to do.

This will be my last blog about Maine for quite a while. We don’t return until July 8th of 2022. That means that from now until then life gets serious again. Back home we have stuff to do, jobs that require our attention, people to see, places to go, grass to cut. I will have two stacks of mail to open. At home it will be 75% political attack mail warning me about how diabolical some candidate is and warning me of how absolutely vital it is that I vote for the other candidate.  My office mail will be 75% junk that wild horses could not make me open. Sometimes I think if it weren’t for junk mail, the Postal service could cut back to three days a week delivery and no one would notice or care, not to mention how much less trash would wind up in the landfill. I received no mail in the seven weeks we spent here. It felt like a great cleansing.

Plenty of bad things happened while we were here. The world doesn’t stop just because we have withdrawn temporarily. A close friend of mine lost a dear family friend to a surprise blood clot in the middle of the night. He was 41 years old. Two family members got COVID. William Shatner went to space. This world keeps on turning. Sunday afternoon when we roll into our driveway, we will be right back in the middle of it all, having been refreshed body and soul by a place that never seems to change. The wind is still fresh in our faces, the lake still shimmers with sunlight, and the loons still call out to us. The lobster is still sweet, the shops still smell of balsam and the sea, and the people are still delightfully quirky. And we still haven’t found our dream camp, which only means that we are an entire year closer to meeting her. 

I will close with another quotation from Mr. Cole from the book, In Maine:

“In Maine, I have watched the wind being born, birthing in the western sky and then feathering the bay’s silken surface with the first tentative touch of its young pinions. I have seen the nor’westers make a sea of our meadow, rolling the high grass in waves that break on the crest of our hill. I have felt the same wind fill a sail with a hard slap that sets my boat a running. It does the same thing to me. It dashes its fresh chill in my face, clears my head and sets my thoughts a running.”

Lucy’s Camp

In the Dunnevant family, much is made of the LVV award, given each year to the person who best displays their complete and utter worthlessness while on vacation. Sloth, total absence of initiative, and general laziness are essential for anyone who hopes to snag the Least Valuable Vacationer award. My daughter is the undisputed champion of the LVV, but since she’s not on this trip, my sister Paula has been the runaway winner. However, if there was such a thing as a Most Valuable Vacationer award, this trip’s winner would be equally unanimous…Lucy.

This dog has been living her very best life since we first pulled into the driveway 12 days ago. She loves everything about being in Maine, but the lake is her Valhalla. She parks herself at the very edge of the dock, stretches her nose in the direction of the breeze and sniffs like its her job. She is fascinated by the leaves that float on the water, totally enamored with my lures as they glide across the water’s surface. But swimming is what she lives for. Yesterday, I had been out on the kayak fishing for about three hours when I turned a corner and spotted our dock probably two football fields away. Pam texted me that she was going to let Lucy swim across to meet me halfway when I decided to head back to the dock. When I got a little closer—maybe one football field—I called her name. Immediately, she launched herself off the dock…

Her favorite swimming time is when she gets to tag along with Pam as she takes her paddle board out…

Sometimes, Lucy can’t decide if she should take a nap or not…there are so many things to do!!!

But, as long as Mom is close by, a nap can be taken anywhere.

But make no mistake…this is Lucy’s Camp!

Giving the (Two) People What They Want

Pam and I are taking a drive today to look at a lake house. It has lots of potential but also has several drawbacks, but we are going to take a look anyway. Even if it ends up being nothing, at least we can enjoy looking at the leaves on the way. I’ve been watching this particular house for months on Redfin, as the price has dropped little by little. It is now comfortably within our price range. Of course, I’m suspicious as to why the price has fallen, and I have questions about the lake that this house sits on, but the place is absolutely gorgeous. We shall see.

Meanwhile, it has occurred to me that I have not published any Dad Jokes in a very long time. So, to calm the outcry from scores of readers…well, many readers…ok, TWO readers, here are a few.

My latest book is about all the things I need to do.

It’s an oughtobiography…

How can you tell if an ant is a boy or a girl?

You put them in water. If it sinks, its a girl ant. If it floats….

Luke Skywalker asked Obi Wan Kenobi if he stood a chance against Darth Vader.

Obi Wan said…

“Maybe Yoda, Maybe ya don’t…”

Marijuana and cold coffee is my favorite breakfast combo.

Which might explain why…

Ice mocha lotta weed.

Where do cow farts come from?

The dairy air….

Pam’s Pictures

Pam heads out pretty much every morning on her kayak. Yesterday she was wrapped up like an Eskimo head to toe because it was quite cold. She took some amazing pictures while she was out there. Here are a few of them for your edification on this Lord’s Day…

And finally, a rare photograph of Lucy actually asleep on the dock…

Ivermectin and the Neighsayers

https://www.bbc.com/news/health-58170809

This article from the BBC will change no minds. People who are convinced that Ivermectin is a cure for COVID will continue to believe. By reposting it here, I will run the risk of being dismissed as in the tank for Big Science, or worse…an authoritarian Statist. This, of course, is unbridled nonsense. I am simply trying to rein in disinformation. I would be thrilled to learn that ice cream cured COVID, but it would have to be accompanied by plenty of peer reviewed studies with faultless methodology. In other words, a very rocky road of research would have to be trod before I would believe in the cure. It would appear that the studies done with regards to Ivermectin lacked not only reliable scientific data but also the key ingredient of all research…horse sense.

So, I post this and will gladly accept the blowback. All neighsayers are welcome here.

The Sound That a Screen Door Makes

There are advantages to always being the first one up in the morning. I get to watch the sun come up. Some days are more glorious than others, but they are all delightful.

Lucy had a big day yesterday. She spent a lot of her time in the water, swimming all over the place with endless energy and curiosity. Probably the highlight of her day was when Ron and I did our version of the polar plunge, by jumping in with her. The water temperature was 60 degrees, which for native Mainers would be considered sauna-like, but for southern boys like us felt about as freezing cold as it is possible to get!

I will say this…when you jump into 60 degree water, there is absolutely no question about the fact that you are alive. 

Here’s a random observation apropos to nothing. There are several screen doors at this cabin. There is a distinct sound that they make when opening that produces in me a profound nostalgia for my childhood. As the rusty spring coil expands and contracts there’s that sound, so familiar and evocative of a time long past. Whenever I heard that sound when I was a kid I knew I was safe. Does anyone else have the same reaction upon hearing it? My house doesn’t have a screen door, so I never hear it anymore. Maybe if I heard it every day it would lose its power. Perhaps its true what they say about absence making the heart grow fonder. Whatever the reason, every time I walk through one of the four screen doors in this cabin, I hear it and my heart says…yes.

Perfect

In this life we are not given very many perfect days. There is always something mucking up the works, bad weather, aches and pains…idiots. But yesterday was awfully close to being a perfect day. It started well, advanced beautifully, then ended with the Red Sox eliminating Darth Vader’s New York Yankees from the playoffs.

The morning dawned bright and clear with a lake that looked like polished silver. Pam woke early to take advantage with a morning paddle. My sister Paula, who is famous for not being a morning person, was greeted in an especially warm and affectionate way by her new best friend Lucy, who pounced on her bed at an unGodly hour to welcome her to consciousness…I is awake, you wake up too, hooman!! Thus began a day where the two of them would compete for space on the one sofa in the living room. Lucy is quite particular about her, uh…sofa space. At home, she is allowed on only two pieces of furniture, our bed and the sofa downstairs that has her blanket draped across it. So, at camp we do the same thing. We place a blanket on one of the sofas which tells her that it is ok to sit. Unfortunately, Lucy sometimes interprets this to mean that the entire sofa belongs to her exclusively. Instead of sitting to one side or the other, she plants herself directly in the center. When anyone else decides to sit down, she insists that they don’t get too close. Lucy, being psychotic, requires her own personal space, except on the occasions when she very much wants to get all up in everyone else’s space! After a day of this dance, Paula decided while watching the game that she wanted to stretch out. Ron sat down at one end, Lucy was dispatched to the floor, and Paula got herself comfortable, stretching out her full length. Lucy was about to teach Aunt Paula what having a dog was all about. She walked over to the sofa and began her work. She just stood there, mouth opened, pink tongue out, a devious smile on her face and started staring, her mesmerizing brown eyes locked on to Paula’s. This was going to be no contest. It might take a while, but Lucy was not going to be denied. After several uncomfortable minutes of this Mexican standoff, Lucy pounced, launching herself up on the sofa, on Paula’s legs, then burrowed and shifted back and forth until room was made, then curled up in a tight ball in between them…mission accomplished! Lucy is living her best life.

Once Pam got back from her paddle, we all headed in to Camden for breakfast at the Deli and some shopping. Dropped over a hundred bucks at the Smiling Cow which is actually better than average. Meg, the owner gave all four of us free pieces of a fresh batch of pumpkin fudge, probably because she feels guilty for taking all of our money. Then we walked up and down Main Street for an hour or so, popping in and out of all our favorite shops. More money changed hands…it ain’t cheap being on vacation in Maine.

When we arrived back at camp, we all swore off lunch because of the ridiculous amount of calories we had consumed at breakfast, what with three ginormous blueberry pancakes the size of hubcaps drenched in maple syrup. So, with no lunch to fix that meant that it was time for fishing. I caught six nice sized fish and  had a blast touring the lake while doing so. Eventually I hooked up with Ron who was out on his own fishing adventure. His kayak pulls up to mine and he says…I need some help! He had hooked his lure onto the tie rope at the front of the kayak and couldn’t get it loose. My delicate touch resulted in destroying the lure with a pair of pliers then sending him on his way!

Meanwhile, back at the dock, Lucy was entertaining Paula and Pam with her swimming skills, fetching her frisbee out of 60 degree water like it was nothing.

After fishing, a nap was enjoyed.

Then Pam made a delicious salmon dinner. You might be asking yourselves why Pam would be cooking dinner. After all, we invited Ron and Paula to come up here to stay with us…for free. Shouldn’t that fact warrant some sort of payback which might involve preparing meals? Well, here’s the thing. Paula made a pot of chili before she left Short Pump, froze it and kept it on ice. When they arrived Monday afternoon she warmed it up for our dinner that evening. Apparently that has served as the sum total of her physical labor for the week. She is determined to dethrone my daughter Kaitlin as the LVV…(least valuable vacationer).

After dinner we all had a glorious time watching the $230,000,000 Yankees swing and miss their way to ignominious defeat on national television.

I’m telling you people, it just doesn’t get any better than this.

And now for some pics…

Going Back in Time

Although it was overcast, with chilly sprinkles of rain when we arrived here on Coleman Pond, Pam and I were delighted to be introduced to this new house on this new lake yesterday. We have had the privilege of staying on many lakes over the years, in many different kinds of places— camps, cottages, cabins, and big, luxurious houses. The Coleman Pond Cottage is unique in that it is the only place that has reminded me of my grandmothers. Everything from how it is decorated to how the place is laid out makes me feel as if I have walked through a time portal and suddenly it is 1965. Lest anyone be confused by this statement let me be clear…this is a compliment. We love this place and so does Lucy.

As is our custom, the first night in Maine always features either pizza or Italian sandwiches from the closest general store. We have two choices in this regard, Drake’s and the Lincolnville General Store. Since we knew that LGS has a brick oven I drove the 8 minutes it took to visit the crunchiest store in all of Midcoast Maine…

Where I was greeted by two smiling ladies, one masked, one unmasked…which essentially is the Maine way.

I didn’t get a chance to get out on the lake but did spend 15 minutes fishing from the dock where this happened…

This morning the sun made an appearance…

As did what apparently will be an every morning ritual…

This is the only source of heat in this place and this morning it was 49.

Two weeks here feels like winning the lottery.

One more thing, when we arrived there were fresh flowers on the table…

This, ladies and gentlemen is one of the differences between an average rental company and On The Water in Maine. If you guys ever rent a place in the Midcoast Maine region and choose to do so through some other outfit, good luck.