Miscellaneous Thoughts of an Aging Man

5:30 in the morning is a good time for reflection. Its quiet and the cares of the day have not made themselves known. You drink your coffee and slowly come to life. You think. You question. In a couple of hours there won’t be time for such thoughts. Here are just a few that I have pondered this morning.

1. Why are so many of our leaders so old? Our President shuffles along with an unsteady gate, mouth agape and slow witted at the microphone. Yesterday, the Senate Majority leader Mitch McConnell froze during a press conference for the second time in two months, staring eerily into space, silent as the grave for several minutes while his aides came along side to whisper in his ear. A US Senator from California clings to power despite deterioration of her mental and physical health. Although the United States is by far the youngest major power in the world as a nation, our leaders look like escapees from a Nursing Home.

2. The Front Runner for the Republican Party Presidential nomination and a former President of the United States has 97 pending felony charges against him, and is himself 77 years old. The previous sentence is one that I never thought I would write at any point during my life.

3. There is a professional baseball player out there who turned down a contract offer that would have paid him 400 million dollars over the next ten years, every dime of it guaranteed. Who does that? Juan Soto better hope he doesn’t slip on the stairs at his house and blow out his knee.

4. Aging has not at all been what I expected it to be. When I was a much younger man I would look at people in their 60’s and think, “Why are old people so grumpy, mean and set in their ways?” But over the last couple of years the aging process has manifested itself differently for me. The physical part sucks. When stuff starts breaking down, its no fun. Your body tries to warn you but you don’t listen. The other day the kid next door wanted to play some one on one. I took him on and although I managed to win, when it was over the kid went on about his day like nothing had happened. Me, on the other hand, spent twenty minutes in the jacuzzi to regain feeling in my extremities! But the physical is one thing, what has happened to my thinking and attitudes is what has been a whole other story. Instead of getting more set in my ways, I have begun to question my ways more than I ever have. I’m always thinking, “Why do I do this? Why do I think this way? Why have I always done things this way?” Its not that I am rejecting my earlier ideas or habits necessarily, but I am inspecting them more closely. Its difficult to explain. Some old habits and preferences haven’t changed at all, but others have. There are publications I used to read without much scrutiny or criticism which now I find myself questioning…wait a minute, that’s not true! At one time in my life I could be very unyielding about certain things. Now I find myself much more willing to listen. I’m growing much more contrarian with age. I’m much more suspicious of conventional wisdom. Groupthink still repulses me but as I get older I am much more likely to notice that groupthink in my own views. And there’s another thing…

The other day I was meeting with a client and was telling her a story about something her deceased husband had done for me many years ago. Right in the middle of the telling I suddenly choked up—in front of a client!!!—to the point where I had to pause the story to gather myself. Its not even the first time this has happened recently. This NEVER would have happened when I was 40. I have never been overly sentimental…until I turned 60 or so. Now, sentimentality rears its strange head at the oddest times and for the oddest reasons.

Don’t misunderstand. I still have my “get off my lawn” moments. I’m still stubborn about certain things. But there has also been a slow transformation in the way I think. Its as if the more I know, the less I think I know. Maybe thats not the best way to say it. Perhaps its closer to this—the more I know, the more I realize I don’t now.

Pete’s Preaching Today

Pete is preaching today. At my church you never know who will be in the pulpit from one week to the next. Most of the time its David Dwight, but there are three or four other guys who take turns. Today it will be Pete Bowell. I know this because it was my turn to prepare the discussion questions for the sermon this week, so I received his notes on Monday. I had seriously considered calling Tera Fleming, the coordinator of this project, and telling her that I couldn’t do it this week. I didn’t feel up to it honestly. But then I started to feel guilty for disappointing Tera by shirking my responsibility, so I opened the email and read through Pete’s sermon notes.

I can picture him delivering this message. This one is right in his wheelhouse. The topic is anxiety, precisely, why it is that we humans constantly worry about everything. The scripture is from the 6th chapter of Matthew’s gospel, right in the middle of the famous Sermon on the Mount. As fate would have it—if you believe in fate—crushing anxiety was the very thing that almost caused me to bail on this responsibility this week. Had I followed through on the bailing I would have missed my encounter with the words of Jesus in Matthew 6: 25-34. It was exactly what I needed to be confronted with this week. The worry and anxiety had become debilitating, it felt like I was wearing a thick and heavy winter coat in the midst of a heat wave. Reading this passage and Pete’s thoughts, along with a few encouraging and wise texts from Tera brought me back into a place of relative strength and peace.

So, there are many lessons to be taken from this experience. First, don’t shirk your responsibilities. It was my turn to do the discussion questions. My mood of the moment was irrelevant to that responsibility. Second, the scriptures are alive with the power to inform and correct, no matter how many times you have read them. They are new every morning.

So, I will listen closer than usual this morning to Pete’s words. He will make me laugh out loud at least once. He will add things that weren’t in his notes. But I will come away from it feeling more confidence and less fear. 

National Dog Day…what a racket!!

What a racket. Dogs, who already have the cushiest life on Earth, have somehow finagled a way to earn an exclusive day on the calendar. Like they actually needed an official day. Anyone who has a dog will tell you that every single day is Dog Day. No matter what bizarre, hair brained, cock-eyed stunt they pull they know that at the end of the day they will still get their dinner, a couple of treats, plenty of “good boy’s” and tummy scratches. And now they need more fawning devotion?

Dogs spend 14 hours a day asleep in a variety of shameful poses usually hogging an entire sofa in the process. When they are finally able to rouse themselves from repose they spend another hour searching the yard for the exact perfect spot to relieve themselves. Then there’s the endless growling and barking at the unfortunate man and women who had the nerve to walk their dog on the street in front of the house. Who could forget the ever vigilant warning woofs whenever any delivery man shows up with a box in hand—even though half the time the box contains yet another toy for her?!

Although it isn’t fair to accuse all dogs of the following behavior, our Lucy adds several more wacko traits to the list. First there is the strange meal time protocol that she established years ago whereby she insists upon complete stillness and silence from everyone in the house during her mealtime. You heard that right. When Lucy eats her morning and evening meal she refuses to begin until both of us are seated. It doesn’t matter where we are seated, just that we are not standing. This is non-negotiable. Then there is her psychotic relationship to the stairs in our house. 

Although neither of us can recall any bad stairway experience in Lucy’s entire existence, whenever she is upstairs and we want her to come downstairs, she insists upon an escort. The only exception to the Psycho Stair Rules is when a visitor arrives at the front door. Then its full speed ahead. The second exception is that none of the Psycho Stair Rules apply to any set of stairs in Maine, no matter if they are scary steep and into the darkest abyss, Lucy is convinced that all stairs in Maine lead to a lake. Lastly, there is her supernatural hearing that manifests itself whenever one of us begin eating a bowl of ice cream. No matter how quiet and stealthy I am and no matter where I hide in the house to eat the ice cream—as soon as I near the bottom of the bowl and my spoon makes that tinging sound when I begin scraping the bowl’s bottom, Lucy miraculously appears, as if by teleportation, at my feet with that irresistibly forlorn expression on her face:

Does she look like she needs a National Dog Day? She needs a psychiatrist, that’s what she needs!

But, like all dogs, Lucy is loved deeply and profoundly by everyone who knows her. Despite the considerable work and inconvenience that dogs bring to our lives, they bring something else that is almost impossible to find these days, let alone quantify—joy. 

A Wearisome Day

There are days in every life that feel wrong. From the moment you wake up something seems amiss. You stare longer into the mirror trying to identify the cause but you look the same, just a bit older. You complete your routine without incident. You drink your coffee and get out the door at the regular time. You tell yourself you should eat something but you have no appetite. You head to the office and don’t remember anything about the drive when you arrive. The air seems tepid as it stirs around you somewhere between humid and refreshing. The place is empty when you unlock the door.

There are a couple messages blinking at you from the phone on the credenza. You feel overwhelming dread at what awaits although you have no reason for such pessimism. The messages were both benign. You feel momentarily like a fool. You glance at your agenda for the day and there is nothing there which would justify the great unease that you have felt since 5:45 in the morning. You pour a second cup of coffee and settle in to the work.

You meet with your assistant and find it difficult to pay attention. You can’t afford a wasted day at this point. There is a lot to do, several appointments to plan for. You need to prepare a presentation. There are two clients with review documents that need to be assembled. Suddenly the tasks at hand feel leaden, too much for you. Its a ridiculous notion. You could do all of this in your sleep. You need something to eat. You pick over the offerings in the conference room but take nothing.

You begin returning calls and checking off agenda items. Nearly everything goes perfectly. You skim through the moderate number of business emails and find nothing of significance. You open up two news articles that are appropriate to your industry and skim through the first few paragraphs of each while nausea begins to build. Even though you should read each through to the end you can’t make yourself do it. 

You think of several volunteer tasks you have taken on later in the week and realize that one of them you will need to bow out of because of an unavoidable scheduling conflict. The other one you have plenty of time to do but the thought of it feels daunting even though its anything but. In fact, it happens to be something you love to do. You have to find a way to shake off this inexcusable and self-indulgent melancholy.

It is 2:45 in the afternoon and you are as unmotivated as it is possible to be. You find yourself at the Cadillac dealer having the battery replaced in your key fob. The attendant has to speak your name twice to get your attention. He hands it back to you as good as new and you can’t remember giving it to him. It occurs to you that your mind has been consumed with a minor health procedure that you are dealing with in less than a week. Yesterday you were at the doctor’s office for a preliminary checkup in preparation for the main event next week and from the second you arrived there the smell of the place has brought back twenty year old memories, none of them good. Its total nonsense to equate one with the other. Complete foolishness. But the mind has thoughts of its own and try as you might sometimes you are powerless against them.

Dinner will help. I will grill steaks. There will be tomato pie. Tomorrow will be a new day.

Free

It took a while. It was a rough transition, a difficult re-adjustment. But I am completely back in Short Pump mode, fully immersed in the life I have built here. Then, early this morning I stumbled across this photograph:

There was no identifying time or date. I recognize the dock and lake to be Loon Landing on Quantabacook. Could have been anytime in the last seven or eight years. It doesn’t matter really. It was a sunset and I thought to take a picture of Pam and Lucy admiring the beauty. But for some reason this morning it nearly brought me to tears. Its why we keep going back. Its why we spend so much money borrowing other people’s houses for insanely long stretches of time—for these transcendent moments of beauty that have the power to transform us, to make us better people for having witnessed them.

Of course, moments of beauty can be found everywhere, even Short Pump. But most of the time we are too preoccupied with our routines to notice them here. If I were better at living in the moment I would see them all around me. But I’m not, so I go to Maine where it is exceedingly difficult not to live in the moment. That’s where moments like this one come out of nowhere and stop you in your tracks.

How much would you pay for that sunset? There isn’t enough money in the world and besides—its free.

Welcome Back!

We were welcomed back into the Old Dominion yesterday afternoon at 2:00 by 95 degrees and stifling humidity. The rest of the day was taken up by the grinding slog of unpacking, laundry and reacquainting yourself with the place that has been your home for the past 27 years. Its surprising how quick you lose the rhythm.

Last night, my neighbors welcomed us back in town with the arrival of fire trucks next door and a warning text—“No worries. Its just that the smoke detectors all are going off and won’t shut off and since we left the kids at home by themselves for the second time in history we are being extra cautious and we had to cut our nine holes of golf short good thing for Stu since I was kicking ass and we called a friend from West Creek to check it out so he’s probably there by now and we are on our way home and should be there within ten minutes and how was Maine?” Nothing screams “welcome back” like the Henrico Fire Department.

Early this morning I set about doing my kitchen routine but was surprised by major lapses in my level of awareness. As is my custom I first turned my attention to the coffee maker and began going on muscle memory without thinking until…I looked at the carafe and wondered—Wait, how many cups of water do I use? In Maine, I had to use 6 cups and two heaping 2 tablespoon scoops of Coffee on the Porch to make it strong enough for my tastes. But, what did I use at home? I was momentarily flummoxed. Once it came to me I continued, only to ruin the first attempt by not pushing down on the filter hard enough to engage the dripping device—which produced a pot of coffee filled with grounds! I quickly poured it out and did a redo. The resulting cup of coffee was too weak. Eventually it will come to me.

Then I started to empty the dishwasher. There wasn’t much in it so that went smoothly and just a bit too quick. Something wasn’t right. Then it dawned on me that I had forgotten that our dishwasher has that slide out tray in the top for flat items. It was full of silverware and measuring spoons. I suppose I can be forgiven this lapse since the dishwasher at Loon landing—bless its heart—is only 15 inches wide!!

There are many things about this house that we both desperately missed, nothing more so than our large walk-in shower with the powerful hand held shower head. When I stepped in this morning it felt a little bit like I imagine heaven will be like. I was so pumped to be in such a large space that I went a little overboard with shampoo enthusiasm resulting in a pulled muscle in my neck. Small price to pay!

Then, my last chore of the morning before heading to church was a quick trip into the office to get a head start on Monday morning. When I arrived one of the first thing I noticed was this highly unusual sight…

I immediately texted one of the younger associates who I routinely harass a short message—“So, I come in for the first time in six weeks and discover that you have once again left your urine sample on the water fountain”

He promptly replied that it couldn’t have been him since he was at the beach all week. I will need independent confirmation of this convenient alibi. 

Thankfully, the sheriff is back in town!

Last Summer Post From Maine

Today is packing and cleaning day. Pam just took a kayak out for her morning paddle and I just took Lucy for her morning perambulation. After grabbing a bite to eat I might go out for one last fishing paddle this morning. But after that we will begin the process of attempting to leave Loon Landing better than we found it, which is hard to do since its always spotless when we arrive. I’ll cut the grass, rake the adorable little beach at the water’s edge and make sure that there is no evidence of Lucy’s existence anywhere on the property. Pam will be doing the same thing on the inside of the cabin, a much harder task what with Lucy’s fur bunnies everywhere. But by the time the sun sets tonight everything will be perfect. Friday morning early we will meander up Fire Lane 12 for the last time of 2023. I will be choked up and Pam will shed a few tears. It happens every time.

This particular four weeks was typical in many ways. We hosted Jon and Kaitlin for a week and Ron and Paula for another week. But it was different in one respect—all the lake house purchase drama. If it had worked out it would all have been worth it. Since it didn’t, we feel like we needed another week to replace the one that got devoured by all the anxiety! But, all is well. We will be back in another six weeks for our Fall adventure on Hobbs Pond, just about fifteen minutes from here.

Last night we had a fabulous dinner at Ports of Italy in Rockport. We heard from some friends of ours who spent all day out on Monhegan Island on our recommendation, and they loved it! That’s always a relief. You rave about a place that is magical to you and you hope that your friends agree and that it lives up to the hype. In this case it did which was wonderful to hear.

As sad as we always are to leave the lake, there are things we miss about home. We miss our friends, our church, even my office and the unique relationships I have with everyone there. We miss our neighbors, especially the three pups next door for whom we have presents from the finest toy stores in Camden. We miss our house, which upon our return always seems gigantic! I miss my yard and the yard work it requires. I’m weird that way. I miss my recliner since it fits me and no one else. I miss our well-tuned routines.

But, the minute we arrive home, we will begin counting down the days until our next trip north.

Integrity is Destiny

A good night’s sleep has done wonders for my disposition. Although I am still disappointed about the lake house, I am less so and the feelings aren’t as raw. I have also had time to reflect on a few things, a few second thoughts about what happened that have brought more clarity.

First, many times in my life I have been disappointed about some outcome which I had convinced myself was a disaster only to later learn how lucky I had been. With the passage of time comes new information that make you profoundly grateful for unanswered prayers. I have said as much to my kids at various times when they have been upset about one thing or another—“Just wait and see, someday you will thank God you didn’t get that job because a much better one came along!” Its easier to hand out that type of sage wisdom to others than to accept it yourself.

Secondly, I have discovered what I have always known to be true—everything in a properly operating system of human interaction depends on personal integrity for success. Let me explain. Yesterday in this space I threw a lot of shade at the regulatory scheme of the Federal Housing Finance Agency, and while I take none of it back, I didn’t mean to trash all regulation. In fact we were huge beneficiaries of a governmental regulation yesterday—housing inspectors. The town of Liberty, Maine insists that all homes, new or old, be inspected by licensed building experts before a purchase. It was just such an inspector who saved Pam and I from a world of trouble and expense. He explained his role to us this way—“When I inspect a house I do so as if I were buying it myself. I am working on your behalf here, trying to insure that the property you are buying is safe and properly built according to the building codes of this County.”

But, what if he were corrupt? Suppose Todd was in an unholy alliance with the builder to look the other way on violations and short cuts in exchange for payoffs and bribes? All the best intentions of regulation would be rendered useless if not for the personal integrity of Todd. My dad once told me that “integrity is destiny.” Perhaps nothing he ever told me has been proven more true more often than that statement.

So Pam and I are grateful that somewhere years ago somebody came up with the idea of building inspections, and that when we needed one, we got Todd, a man of integrity.

Dodging Bullets

Winston Churchill once said, “Nothing in life is so exhilarating as to be shot at with no result.” Less famous and far less celebrated people refer to barely avoiding something disastrous as, “dodging a bullet.”  This morning Pam and I had an experience which combined dodging a bullet and having your dreams crushed simultaneously. Put another way…this morning’s inspection didn’t go well.

The events leading up to the inspection had been tumultuous. We discovered the deleterious effects of a little known regulatory change implemented in April of 2022 that made the purchase of second homes far more costly and difficult, which featured among other things exorbitant points and higher interest rates. The purpose of this regulation was to discourage the purchase of second and third homes by people who already have homes in favor of those who have yet to buy their first. It was also enacted because of a home shortage in the land and to prevent the rich getting richer in the real estate market. Which is all very well and good except for two salient points. One, what first time home buyer will be buying a lake house in Maine as their first home? And two, this regulation—as thousands of other regulations in the past have—misses its target by a country mile. The real rich pay cash for their second and third homes!! But, I digress.

This unpleasant discovery caused lots of soul searching on our part but we finally crunched the numbers again for the 89th time and made peace with this new reality. The last hurdle to clear was this morning’s inspection. Todd greeted us stiffly at the door and proceeded to go about his job with diligence and an eye for detail. I would learn later what I suspected at the onset…Todd was ex-military. As we followed him around the exterior of the house we kept hearing him use phrasing like  that’s a cost cutting move, and I wouldn’t have done it this way, and that won’t do. After nearly an hour of this he kindly took Pam aside and suggested that if we decided at any time that we had seen enough he would cancel the rest of the inspection and only charge us for his time. This is known in the inspection trade as a fire engine red warning flag!! Tiffany turned to us at this point and made our decision far easier with this blunt assessment, “I’m sorry but I just can’t let you buy this house. It will be a money pit.”

So this two week white knuckle thrill ride is over. We have dodged a bullet. We are also very disappointed. In many ways we had already taken possession of the place in our hearts. But so many red flags had crept up over the past several days we both knew that there was a chance it wouldn’t work. When that worry becomes reality its hard to take.

But take it we will. Its not the end of the world. We will be back in six weeks for our fall trip, and as long as On The Water In Maine stays in business we will continue to rent every summer and fall for as far as the eye can see. Maybe something else will pop up when we least expect.

A Culinary Recap

Our time here is drawing to a close. Friday we will hit the road for good old Short Pump. Now seems like just as good a time as any to memorialize our culinary greatest hits of Maine 2023. The following photographs represent some of the highlights. There were lots of old favorites but also some new places we discovered this year. As a result of all this deliciousness, there will be just a bit more of us returning than there was that left—an annoying souvenir, but worth every calorie!

There was soooo much more, but I only have so much bandwidth here at Loon Landing!

My Decision Making Process

Its been nine days since our contract was accepted for the as yet unnamed cabin on Lake Saint George. I’m told I have three more days to back out of the deal without consequence. The inspections take place on Tuesday morning, the day before the deadline. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t apprehensive. This is a big decision with long term ramifications for us both now and in the future. For therapeutic purposes I will flesh out the battles raging in my head on this gorgeous Sunday morning in Maine.

Ever since I wrote the last tuition payment check for my kids’ educations in 2011 I have been playing catch up on saving for retirement, trying to make up for the years that the higher education locust devoured. The fruits of that effort have been considerable. Now I find myself within striking distance of some sort of retirement, although what that will look like is yet to be determined. In the back of my mind over the past five years I had also been making plans for the purchase of a lake house. But, with each passing year the prospects of us ever finding a place that satisfied all of our criteria seemed impossible. Both Pam and I had for all intents and purposes given up. As is often the case in life, as soon as you stop manically longing for something, the thing shows up on your doorstep.

Enter the cabin on Lake Saint George. The list of positives is impressive:

Stunningly beautiful lake

Three bedrooms

Two full and spacious bathrooms

Brand new construction

Private location

A full acre of land

Only 38 minutes from Camden, 26 minutes from Belfast

The list of negatives contains only two items that I can think of:

More money than I ever planned to spend on a lake house

Doesn’t sit thirty feet from the water’s edge.

That’s it….basically a money thing. Because not only is the cabin more expensive than I had planned, it will require additional upgrades over the next few months and years. First thing will be the construction of a proper deck off the back. Then an expansion of the cabin’s minimalist dock. Then landscaping of a safe and beautiful pathway down to the water. Finally, we will finish off the basement which will include the addition of a half bath. All of these things will add to the cash outlay required to finish the place to our liking and specifications.

Which brings me back to what I said earlier. Why have I been squirreling away money like a…like a..well, a squirrel for the past 12 years? For my retirement. And, what is retirement? Its not just saving so you will have money to live on once you stop working. Its also saving for what kind of life you want to live once you get there. For us that life will always include Maine and providing a sanctuary for my family, a place for us to gather to relax and recharge, a place to make memories, together.

So when I consider it all, the unruly witches brew of positives and negatives, I come to this conclusion:

My life has always been intricately linked to risk. I chose a high risk occupation. I chose to pursue that occupation as my own boss. Even riskier. During my life I have learned that money is nothing more than a tool. Its never been a goal, only a means to an end. I could spend money on a whole host of things with lesser purpose than a lake house in Maine. I can afford this place, despite all of my concerns about the cost. If I buy it and five years later come to the conclusion that it was a mistake, it won’t be the first one I’ve ever made. Besides, five years from now a lake house with three beds, 2 and a half baths, a lovely deck, beautiful landscaping and a grand dock sitting on the cleanest lake in Maine could be sold at an obscene profit.

So, unless Tuesday’s inspections reveal that the cabin was built on the ancestral burial grounds of the Penobscot Indians, or worse the entire place was built with inferior materials from China…we are all in.

Naming the Place

Today marks the end of week five. A week from tomorrow we will be on our way home. The next seven days will fly by, filled with inspections, dreams and doubts. Everything we left in Short Pump is waiting for us, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Our time here has been reliably restorative, as always.

In Maine I cast off  things. Although I am still connected to my business, I have detached myself from its daily grind. This detachment has worked wonders for my blood pressure and anxiety levels. Every day I check my messages—which is not entirely true. Actually, I have checked them every day since Kristin left for her own two weeks on a lake in Minnesota. When she was minding the store, I let her do the checking.

I have cast off reading the news. For me this has meant no daily internet trips to the Drudge Report, The Wall Street Journal, or the Washington Post. Not being reminded every single morning, afternoon and night of the manifold failures of mankind has also been a boon to my emotional well being. During the hour that I normally consume the news I have been drifting slowly across the still waters of Quantabacook doing this…

Each day I catch at least one fish like this. The rest of the time I paddle along marveling at the beauty of the natural world until I start feeling the pain in my left hip that warns me to head back to the cabin.

Pam and I go on outings from time to time, into Belfast for lunch, Camden for breakfast and shopping, or to do some sightseeing. A couple of days ago I suggested we take Lucy into town, grab some sandwiches from The Deli and eat our lunch on the grounds beside the library overlooking the harbor. Unfortunately, everyone else within a hundred miles of Camden had the same idea. Nevertheless, it was worth it. This was our bench and our view…

In the evenings the television is quiet, with the rare exception of watching the livestream of our church service, one episode of a show Pam and I like and a couple of times when Pam stayed up late to watch an episode of The Bachelorette, after I was safely asleep. But most nights we have settled into a routine of sorts. Dinner happens later here than at home. Sometimes we don’t sit down until after 7:00. Then, Pam takes her paddle board out for her sunset cruise. When she gets back an hour or so later, we settle into the comforting agenda of Pam’s cross stitching project and my novel reading—eleven and counting. Since the cabin purchase went down Pam has dropped the cross stitching in favor of surfing the internet for decorating ideas and desperately trying to settle on a name for the place. Some of her suggestions have been hysterically funny—The Gay Loon Cabin—just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? Last night she blurted out, “What about Birch Landing?” I thought it was beautiful. She got the idea because of the big tree that leans out over the lake near the dock which we think is a birch tree. The appropriateness of the name awaits arboreal confirmation! Besides, naming a lake house that we don’t even own yet and hasn’t even passed inspections seems a bit premature. Still, its never too early to hide these things in your heart. I wrote the following line in one of my novels a few years back:

“The privilege of naming a lake house falls to the person who cries at the closing.”

Its Pam’s job.

Lucy’s Advice

Our last guests left for home yesterday. Its just Pam, Lucy and me now. The warmer, stormy weather of early July has given way to nearly a week of traditional Maine summer weather, mid-70’s sunshine with virtually no humidity. This morning it was 53 when I awoke at 6:00. Tomorrow morning I’m told to expect 50. I’m not sure I will ever become accustomed to this scene in the early morning…

I never want to get to the place as a human being when this doesn’t thrill me. If I ever start to take beauty like this for granted it will be time for me to assume room temperature and make room for someone younger and less jaded. It no longer seems fashionable to say but I believe that all of us should be grateful to live in such a beautiful country.

Progress is being made with the lake house. Inspections have been scheduled for Monday morning at 9:30. On that same day we will meet with a contractor to discuss decks, docks and finishing the basement. Meanwhile Pam has a zillion decorating ideas doing battle inside her adorable head and now has Wayfair on speed dial.

So, here’s the plan. We will leave Loon Landing for the last time on Friday morning the 11th of August heading back home where I will return to my profession with greater clarity and focus—since I will be doing it a few years longer than previously thought. I will work for six weeks with vigorous purpose. Then, on Thursday the 21st of September, Pam and I will leave Richmond with both of our vehicles packed to the gills with every Maine-themed item Pam has accumulated over the past forty years. We will arrive at our brand new empty lake house on Friday the 22nd where we will commence a three week getting to know you staycation. The time will largely be spent acquiring enough basic furniture to make the place presentable for prospective renters for the 6 weeks next summer we have allocated for them. Pam will have three full weeks to place her stamp on the property. My time will be spent buying yard working tools and putting them to proper use on our large sloping slice of the Maine woods that meanders from our back door down to the lake. By the time the three weeks are over we will have blisters where we didn’t even know we had skin. I will be much poorer. Hopefully all of the physical labor will help us shed the extraneous weight that this six weeks have added. It occurs to me that there may not be a bed to sleep on when we arrive. What am I thinking? No doubt Pam will have made the purchase and arranged for its delivery the day we arrive!

Since we signed the papers I have had a couple moments when I’ve thought, “What in the Sam Hill are you doing, Dunnevant? Just when you were about to celebrate being debt free for the first time since you were 19 years old, you go and buy a lake house—at 66 years old!!” Usually, I share these doubts with Lucy. When I do she looks at me like I’ve got two heads and says…

“Stop being drama queen. You got this.”