Tour Guide

For the past couple of days Pam and I have had the privilege of introducing these guys to Maine...

Kirt and Jennifer Sederstrom are a couple of the many new friends we have met at Hope Church. They happened to be on a spontaneous vacation driving through New England. When my wife found out they were going to be in Camden, she couldn’t resist offering our guest house to them for a couple of nights. I can think of nothing that we enjoy more than sharing this incredible part of the country with others. They got here Sunday afternoon and are leaving this morning, but we served as tour guide for some sightseeing, and crammed lots of fun into these two short days. We took them to all of our favorite spots in and around Camden, then gave them a crash course in lake living—Maine style—which includes lots of flotation devices, charcuterie plates, and no judgement and guilt-free afternoon napping. They took to the place like old pros.

In other lake news...

Pam found the perfect lake bag.

Lucy has established herself as the MVV of this trip...Most Valuable Vacationer.

Had a fabulous dinner at Barrettstown Farmhouse.

Had another one of these...

The trees and the sunset reflecting off the windows of the cottage, with Lucy keeping a sharp eye on us...

So now the hard part of the trip has arrived, that uncomfortable feeling that rises in the stomach when it occurs to us that we only have three more days of this. Thursday doesn’t count either since we will be preoccupied with packing up. Our month away is drawing to a close. Reality awaits us back in Short Pump. At this point, I’m not sure who will more devastated...us or Lucy.

Never Let Them Take Your Pants

Reading Richard Russo. I love him and I hate him. I love the guy so much I read everything he writes. I hate the guy because in doing so I am reminded just how pathetic my writing is by comparison. I discovered him a few years ago when I found his Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Empire Falls, in a bookstore in Camden on the Maine Authors aisle. When I then learned that he used to live a block from the Camden Deli and actually spent time writing the book at his regular table there, I was enchanted. Seven novels later, here I am, diving once again into two of his more recent works...

Great writers have the gift of delivering truth directly into your brain without the distractions of car chases, bad acting, and the pretentious cinematography of film. You’re reading along on the edge of your seat when, out of nowhere, you are presented with a fog clearing sentence like this:

...People cling to folly as if it were their most prized possession, defending it, sometimes with violence, against the possibility of wisdom.

It stops you in your tracts. You find yourself staring out at the lake, deep in thought, sorting through all of the real life examples of this human tendency you have witnessed in your 61 years, how many times we deny evidence of our own errors rather than admit them, learn from them and move on. How many marriages have failed, how many businesses have gone belly up, how much of our own politics has been poisoned by this simple truth?

But then it dawns on me that this isn’t a unique insight by a great writer, I have heard something similar before, but I just can’t place it. Maybe it was from Shakespeare or one of the great works of Dickens, or Jane Austin. Then it hits me...it was actually from the Apostle Paul:

...They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped created things rather than the creator...Romans 1:25

...proving another 2500 year old truth bomb from King Solomon...There is nothing new under the sun.

Lest I give the impression that Russo’s writing is all deadly serious, I should mention that he is perhaps the funniest novelist of this or any age. More often than not, his humor comes on the heels of something deadly serious, which makes it even funnier. When he was describing a character’s deadly diagnosis of cancer and the blow it had been to his young son, he follows it up with the sick man’s opinion of hospitals...

...Never let the bastards take your pants, because bare-assed men don’t get to make decisions.

Truer words have never been spoken.

My Excellent Kayak Adventure

Yesterday afternoon I took the kayak out and headed north along the edge of the lake. I had my fishing rod with me, as I searched for a new fishing hole. The lake seemed ideally suited for such an adventure, not completely calm with just enough current to make it fun. I must here confess that fishing from a kayak is probably easier than I make it look. Fifteen minutes in, I sent a cast too close to the edge, launching one of my prize lures into a low hanging branch. Unfortunately, it could not be saved. The fishing part of my adventure came to an abrupt end since I had only brought a few extra lures with me, no swivels. At this point I decided to continue my trip and enjoy the scenery.

Quantabacook is a small lake by Maine standards. It takes up 665 acres of real estate. Loon Landing sits at the southern end and our view of the entire lake is limited by the shape. If a kayak were deployed on a voyage around the perimeter of Quantabacook, it would require an 8.4 mile cruise. My voyage was considerably less...

However, the 4.4 miles I did manage revealed some incredible beauty. Of course, everything looks better when framed by crystal clear blue skies. I believe that what makes Quantabacook special is it’s anonymity. This is the lake that nobody has ever heard of. It’s one of the few up here that cannot be seen from any State road. It sits back in the woods, isolated and ignored. I don’t know how many cottages, camps and homes are here, but when you kayak along the edges it doesn’t seem like many. There are long stretches when all you see are looming pines, spruce, and birch trees and rocks jutting from under the water line. There was one section where it seemed that I was completely alone on an abandoned lake, with only the sound of birds in the trees and a couple of loons for company...

I took this photograph from the marshes to the north, around two miles from Loon Landing. An otter lives there, I’m told...but I didn’t see him. 

I made the wise decision not to take on the top quadrant of the comma. Instead, I cut across open water to the western shore and immediately found something that had so far eluded me. Every time we come here, we see a magestic eagle soaring above us. He comes and goes in his impressive way, making sure we know that Quantabacook belongs to him. Up until yesterday I had never found his nest, but suddenly, there it was near the top of a giant pine tree...

The last leg of my journey found me getting uncomfortable. The giant catcher’s mitt shaped clouds had thinned, leaving me in the bright sunshine. At the one hour mark, my backside was feeling it—this kayak has a paper thin seat—and I was getting hot. Just about this time of maximum discomfort, Quantabacook threw me a bone...I turned a corner and found this lovely spot in the shade where the current had died down. I sat there for probably five minutes just looking and listening...

Looking back on these photographs it occurs to me that they really aren’t all that impressive. Unless you’ve been to a place like this yourself, seen it, smelled it, and heard it for yourself, it might not resonate. Quantabacook cannot be experienced in third person. It’s a here and now place.

Coming Attractions

A while back, I wrote a novel called Saving Jack. The idea for the story had come to me at this very place a year earlier as I was sitting on the dock fishing. So, I suppose you could say that Loon Landing was my muse, adding to the long list of it’s magical powers. Anyway, I like the novel, so much so that I am planning on publishing it as an e-book on Amazon. To that end, I have employed my daughter, Kaitlin, to edit the work. She has editing experience, has a Masters Degree in English literature, and an English teacher’s intolerance for bad grammar. I sent her the transcript as a Google doc so I can actually see the suggested edits she makes in real time and either accept or reject them. It has been a humbling experience.

When I was in high school and should have been learning all about grammar and sentence structure, I was otherwise engaged in more pressing matters such as the proper construction of paper airplanes, flirting with the many beautiful girls in my classes, and skipping school to go swimming. While it was all great fun, I have lived to regret my less than stellar performance at Patrick Henry High. When Kaitlin gets finished with a chapter it looks like a disaster, like there has been an ink pen accident involving the color green, slashes and dashes everywhere!! 

She makes very few plot related suggestions aside from an occasional - develop this character more. It’s almost exclusively grammar and balky phrasing. In her defense, I probably approve 95% of them. She is making the manuscript so much better, earning her money. When I attempted an apology of sorts for all of my errors, she attempted to reassure me with this classic—Dad, you’re a great writer, its just that you struggle with grammar and phrasing. That’s like a pitching coach telling his rookie pitcher—Kid, you’re a great pitcher except for the fact that you have no control, your curve ball has no bite and you need to work on your velocity!!

The plan is to scrub all of my grammar and phrasing embarrassments away and come up with a clean copy. Then, come up with some compelling cover art. After that, I will devote myself to the business of getting it self published for sale on Amazon. To make it work, I will have to market Saving Jack. I will start with promoting it here on The Tempest. The hope is that many of you will be willing to purchase it in ebook form for the currently undecided price of between $5.99 and $9.99. The second part of the plan is that those who do buy it will love it and immediately start telling their friends about it and spreading the thing around Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, and more importantly...write glowing reviews of it on Amazon! Of course after the thing sells 100,000 copies, a bidding war will erupt between all the major New York publishers, I will end up on a book tour, get interviewed on the Today Show and make a million dollars, and about the time it gets made into a movie I’ll be ready to publish  A Life of Dreams. ( I think this is an excellent example of what Kaitlin is talking about when she says—confusing phrasing)!!

Anyway, I’ll keep you all posted on the development of this project. Set aside your $5–$10 bucks now.

A Quiet, Magestic Day

Today, it’s raining and 65. It’s a quiet day, a day for reading and clam chowder. A trip into town is in the works to pick up some odds and ends, perhaps another book, since I’m about finished Anthony Horowitz’ The Sentence Is Death. A game or two of Rummikub will be played. Naps will be taken. Maybe dinner out. Usually, Lucy gets unsettled by the rain. This morning not so much...

What follows are some pictures we have taken over the past couple of slower days, which gave us a chance to revisit some of our favorite spots:

A schooner on Penobscot Bay

Camden, from the top of Mount Battie

Lucy, unimpressed with the view

Perhaps the loveliest picnic spot in all of America

Pam swinging on her favorite swings at Camden Hills State Park

I am the only one in this photograph without a small mouth 

My faithful fishing buddy

Lucy protecting Mom from the dangerous approach of four Canadian Geese

Lucy inspecting her catch

Dinner

Yes...another sunset

And now as Pam paddles back from another sunset trip on the lake, the loons begin to call out. I have no picture of the sound. You’ll have to close your eyes and imagine it for yourself.

Week One in the Books

We’ve taken a bunch of pictures since we arrived here just over a week ago. If I had to pick only one of them which summarizes what this first week has been like, it would be this one...

There has been a lot of this, me kicked back on the dock, Lucy standing vigilant guard after a swim, and Pam reading a book on her Nook. Last night was the first time we have gone out for dinner, that’s how magnificent the weather has been. But the past two days have been much hotter, especially around the dinner hour, turning our un-air-conditioned cottage into a steam bath. So, we decided to drive into Belfast for dinner at Delvino’s. First of all, Delvino’s is the best restaurant in the area, and secondly Delvino’s is air conditioned! We ordered beer-battered haddock bites with lemon aioli tartar sauce for an appetizer and I was tempted to tell the waitress...Ok, I’ve decided that I don’t want an entree, just keep these babies coming! Sensational. 

Afterwards we tooled around the streets of downtown Belfast, which we have always considered Camden’s red-haired stepchild...(just as Rockland is Camden’s annoying younger brother). But, over the years, Belfast has grown on us. It is quite charming and generally not as crowded in the evenings. Except for Delvino’s. SRO at 7:30. We waited 30 minutes for a high top. Worth it.

As we were leaving, we noticed that the sky was, once again, lit up with sunset colors. Belfast is a harbor town. Our restaurant was two blocks from the ocean. But, 18 minutes away, we knew that we were missing another fire show at Quantabacook. I hustled home as fast as I could, but by the time we arrived it was mostly over. Still, Pam and Lucy walked out on the dock to watch the last few minutes...

A word about my wife. I run a considerable risk publishing the above photograph of her on the streets of Belfast without her consent. I took it partly to capture the sky but also to catch my wife in the act of being beautiful without even trying. Here’s the thing...Pam is always put together. It’s who she is. She always takes care to look her best when she goes out in public. It’s not born of vanity, its more like she considers it bad manners to look sloppy. Me, on the other hand, on many occasions have been stopped at the door and delivered a sharp rebuke...Um, no. You are NOT going out in public dressed like a homeless man. So, last night Pam went out without doing anything to her hair. It was far too hot to even think about running a blow dryer. She just let it dry on it’s own. She was worried that she would look like a scarecrow or something. But I had to remind her of a fact about beauty that most women don’t understand.

Most of the time, Pam looks her best when she is all dressed up, nice outfit, hair done, makeup in place etc..etc.. However, there are times when she looks even better...when she’s not even trying. Every man reading this will understand this instinctively. Yes, we all love it when our wives get dressed up in their finest. But there are other times when they are a bit disheveled, windblown and harried when we glance at them and think...Wow, is my wife gorgeous or what?! Last night was one of those times.

It appears that the weather is on the mend today...high only 76 with plenty of sunshine. The owner is coming to cut the grass at some point today, so we will have to be on our best behavior. Met our new neighbors yesterday...family from Pennsylvania. Dan works for a company with a branch office in...wait for it...Short Pump. Small world! Pam so impressed them with her effortless paddle boarding, they went out and rented one for their 16 year old son. Pam gave him a short lesson and off he went. 

Another day in paradise.

A Mysterious Connection

After six days of glorious weather, the next two days will find us catching up with the rest of the country which has been in the grips of a merciless heat wave ever since we left Short Pump. Our part of Maine will be under a Heat Advisory from 11 am today until 7pm tomorrow. What this means for us is...a high temperature today of 93 and 89 tomorrow with unusually high humidity. Before you scoff at 89 producing a Heat Advisory, you should consider that most people on this lake and probably 60% of the businesses in Camden have...no air conditioning. Our plan is to spend as much of this day as possible either in or on the water. If there is no wind today, this cottage will become an unbearable steam bath by around 4 o’clock. If so, we are planning a grocery shopping trip to the Belfast Hannaford’s...a very slow and casual grocery shopping trip which may take a couple of hours to complete. (Hannaford’s is delightfully climate controlled!)

Of course, we have zero right to complain. Our first week has been like something out of a dream...perfect weather, calming breezes, and a series of sunsets seemingly intent upon outperforming the night before. Here they are, in order of their appearance:

Last night’s may have been the most dramatic. From the picture you will notice on the far right an intimidating rainstorm that was passing by up towards Bangor. Although it missed us, our horizon was split in two, dark thunderous clouds to the north and brilliant sunshine to the south. It was fascinating to watch, putting a perfect ending to my wife’s birthday. She spent it doing all of the things she loves most in this world, a 4 mile kayak trip at dawn, a leash-less walk with Lucy, a drive into Camden for a lobster roll and a root beer on a park bench down the hill from the library overlooking the harbor, then an afternoon of floats on the lake, with Lucy swimming with her, and a couple of long paddle board jaunts. The coolest thing that happened featured something that I have long suspected about my wife...loons love her. No, I am not making a wisecrack about her husband, I am referring to the mysterious connection that she seems to have with this iconic Maine bird. Just before she left for her early morning kayak trip, five of them magically appeared at the end of our dock, as if to greet her on her big day. It is quite rare to see more than two or three loons together at one spot, but where my wife is concerned they ignore convention. Then, at the close of the day, two more incredibly docile loons plopped out of the water in front of our dock again, this time falling asleep for over thirty minutes while we inspected them up close. It was spooky, in a way, as if they knew it was her birthday, and that she loves them so. 

Of course, she also spent time talking with her two children and getting to see our new GrandPup, Frisco, on FaceTime. When we finally called it a night, I knew that she had a perfect day. All the ingredients for perfection were here already. All we had to do was show up.

The Reminder In The Wind

For better or for worse, I am a man of the south. I was born in Virginia and have lived in the old Capital of the Confederacy all of my life except for three years which was split between New Orleans and a two horse farming town called Nicolsville, Alabama. Most of my vacations have been taken on the ocean in either North or South Carolina. My children live in Nashville, Tennessee and Columbia, South Carolina. But I am not just southern by geography, I am also southern by temperament. My attitudes and lifestyle were formed here. Its been a mixed bag. Everything about the south clings to you, the traditions, the food, the humidity. There is much about being a southerner that I’m proud of, but there are also things I’ve had to overcome, ways of thinking and being that borrow too much from the past. There is a tendency towards the provincial here, an us vs. them mindset. Down here, it’s either SEC football or nothing. It’s been said that you could blindfold a southerner and drop him anywhere in the country and in five minutes he could tell if he was in the south or not. I believe it. It’s in the atmoshere. It hovers. It’s a presence.

When I come to Maine, I am always aware that I am...away. It is, quite literally, in the wind. Since marrying a girl from Maine 35 years ago, I have probably spent nearly a year of my life up here now, mostly in June or July, but more recently in September and October. Everything about this place is different from what I know. But nothing is as unique as the wind. It will be difficult to explain. Mainers probably won’t know what I’m talking about because they have never known anything else. People from down south will think I’m exaggerating. 

Of course there are winds in Maine about which I know nothing. The howling gusts that savage these people over the five brutal winter months are something that I am grateful never having experienced. There isn’t enough money in the world to make me live here from November to March. In Virginia, we love our snow and brief relationship with cold. It is a quaint photo opp, a postcard scene that closes schools and sends suburban Mom’s scurrying to grocery stores to stock up on bread and milk. It’s delightful. Here, snow lost all romantic pretense about 300 years ago. No thanks.

So, basically I’m talking about the breezes of summer. There are so many different kinds of breezes in Maine and if you’re lucky you will experience all of them in a single day.

At 6 am, I wake up and walk out on the deck. Today it was 58 and the lake was drifting by from the west, the breeze gentle and forgiving. Still, I had long pajamas and a long sleeve shirt on. It was chilly. Other days when you wake up the lake is as still as glass. The trees hang motionless as the dead...but still you feel the occasional breeze in your face from out of nowhere. It’s the oddest thing. Around ten o’clock in the morning a mysterious thing happens, and it happens almost every single day...the wind picks up from across the lake and begins to stiffen. Soon the wind chime starts singing. This keeps up for thirty minutes or so and you begin the great anticipation, the answer to the question that each day presents itself...will it blow all day, or die back down? Forget the weather forecasters on the subject, they are like sorcerers from the Middle Ages, bumbling and stumbling about making fools of themselves trying to pretend they can predict the winds. Up here, the wind has a mind of its own.

The first two days we were here the wind blew all day with several gusts that sent the wind chime into musical orbit. It was nearly 84 one day, but the wind coming off the water made it feel so much colder. Yesterday it was 79 and the breezes that came were 
intermittent and surprising. But no matter what the temperature happens to be, there is always a startling coolness in the wind. It comes like a reminder to me that I am not in the south anymore. It’s Maine’s way of letting me know that I am...a guest.

There is also a distinct smell that is stirred by these breezes. Although we are a twenty minute drive from the Ocean, there is a briny ingredient in it, mixed with the deep woods aromas of pine straw, moss and balsam. Sit outside in it long enough and you become ravenously hungry despite the fact that you’ve spent all day doing nothing.

In the evening everything changes. The wind dies down, the lake settles itself, becomes like glass again. Then we wait for the sunset. It’s a long performance in several acts that begins around 7:45 and doesn’t finish up until almost 9:00. I’ve learned to never give up on a sunset here. You look at the dark, cloudy sky and are tempted to say, We won’t get one tonight. Too cloudy. But, you are almost always wrong. Some strange thing happens in the heavens...the wind stirs something up...and suddenly the show is on. It is breathtaking. You take photographs, to no avail. It cannot be captured, it seems, as if it is here just for us and no one else. We are, after all...guests. The wind reminds us every day.

Better Vacations With Technology

As many of you know, my wife and I had a long and vigorous debate before this year’s Maine trip as to the disposition of Lucy. Should we bring her with us like we have twice before, or should we leave her at home with Becca the Dog Whisperer like we did least year? It was a tough call, since although she loves it here, leaving her in Short Pump last year did give us a lot more freedom. What it boiled down to for Pam was...I feel nervous leaving her alone for half the day in a strange house. What if she hears someone shoot a gun or what if a thunderstorm pops up and she goes all postal??

Obviously, Lucy is here. So what happened? Did my famous powers of persuasion overcome her arguments? Was I forced to resort to bribery? Did I fall on my knees begging? No, no, and no. What happened was...technology.

Allow me to introduce you to...Wyze Cam v2, the digital security camera which allows you to keep tabs on your hyper-neurotic dog from your cell phone 24/7. If she were to get into any mischief, you can even send a corrective rebuke through the ether to remind her that...we’re watching!!

Pam had visions of Lucy standing at the back door whining for hours after we leave to head into Camden, then once the poor thing realized we were gone, she imagined her sulking around the house, mourning our loss and looking for ways to lash out at her duplicitous humans. Instead, we got this...

Is this a great time to be alive or what??

Hard To Pretend I’m Not In Heaven

Every time I come up here I feel conflicted about...Facebook. Let me explain...

On the one hand, this is my favorite place in the world. Everywhere I look I see beauty and wonder. Here’s a very small example...

I mean, for heavens sake, I can’t even write a blog without being enchanted by it! So, naturally I feel compelled to share it with everyone. If there is a line between sharing and it’s notorious twin brother—Facebragging—I probably have crossed it. By posting so many pictures and writing so many blogposts about my adventures up here, will I run the risk of alienating the reader? Will all of this Loon Landing love start to grate on your nerves? Will I come off as just another privileged white guy bragging about his carefree life while everyone else is trudging off to work? Maybe. It’s certainly a possibility.

But on the other hand, I could be spending all my energy ranting about politics. I could be sending out cryptic coded messages about someone with whom I hold a bitter grudge. I could spend my time fishing for compliments by posting something like...Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed..#ineedprayer. I suppose I could post recipes, or share my latest Map My Fitness running map. Maybe I could entertain all of you with my fascinating opinions on the national debt and the glaring errors of our fiscal policy.

What is Facebook and other social media for if not the dissemination of joy and happiness? I don’t know about you but I would rather see pictures of babies and puppies all day than participate in a single online shouting match between a Socialist and a Trump-loving evangelical. Speaking of puppies, meet my new Grandpup...Frisco Rutherford Dunnevant...

The family resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?

So...while I will try to be sensitive over the next three weeks with regards to over-sharing this fabulous place with the world, I make no promises that I will be successful. I suppose you all can vote with your feet if I get too carried away. But, I just can’t pretend that I am not in heaven. When I drive down the long dirt road through the Maine woods that ends at this place, I am overcome with a desire to bring every single person that I love in this world with me...even if it’s only for one day. I want everyone to sit on this dock. I want everyone to hear the loons, breathe the clean air and feel the cool breezes in July. I want everyone to smell the barbecue chicken cooking on the grill while watching the sunset in a furious explosion of color through the pines across the way. I want all of this for everyone...even those who voted for someone else.

All Is Well.

We have made the drive to Maine using the western route many times now after years of trudging up that 21st century trail of tears known as Interstate 95. The western route is an hour and a half longer but far less stressful and the scenery is incredible. What’s not incredible is the Ramada Inn of Pottsville, Pennsylvania.

When traveling with Lucy, we have to find pet-friendly hotels in far away places sort of on the fly. Friday was one of those days. We left Hatteras Island at 7:20 AM for what ended up being a four hour drive to Short Pump. So far, so good. By the time we had repacked the car to accommodate Miss Lucy, eaten lunch, and rested a bit, we departed for Maine around 3 in the afternoon. I had no idea what the traffic would be like and how far I would be able to go without getting too tired...so Pam, my travel agent, was severely handcuffed in her job of finding the right hotel in the right town. To make a long story short, she settled on the accursed hotel mentioned in the first paragraph above that I simply can’t bring myself to type again.

First of all, the hotel was a thirty minute drive into the bowels of the Pennsylvania mountains from interstate 81. This particular drive recalled traumatic memories for me of the Deliverance variety, while Pam began shrinking in despair with each mile driven, the horrific memory of the Yokum Vacationland Motel debacle from twenty years ago. If you were in the Youth Group at GABC back in the day, you know of which I speak. If not, you’ll have to ask Pam about it one day. Our GPS wasn't impressed with our choice of accommodations either, since she decided to deposit us in the sketchiest, scariest section of Pottsville and then blithely declare...You have arrived at your destination...and frankly, I expected better. After some fancy footwork, I managed to finally find the place, a dismal brick building whose front entrance was roped off with what looked like police tape...not a good sign. The personality-free girl at the front desk offered this helpful explanation...We painted the steps today. Her next mono-toned words were...No, you can’t have a room on the first floor, we’re almost completely full. 

At this point, after ten hours of driving, hamstrings within mere minutes of full-fledged revolt, the only thing I could think of was...Wait a minute...this hotel, in this town, is sold out?? What...is there a sadists convention in town? Then, the charmless girl behind the counter showed signs of life...NO, its the big Yuengling Festival!! It’s their 199th anniversary celebration!! Oldest brewery in America!!

Actually, that explained a lot.

When we finally got Lucy into the loud and scary elevator and opened the door to our fourth floor suite, Pam was ready to turn around and drive straight through the night to Loon Landing, even if it meant she would have to drive. The place was 100 degrees...the air conditioner hadn’t been turned on all day. The dimly lit rooms gave off an industrial smell which, if bottled and sold as air freshener would be named...Inhospitable. It was the first hotel room I have ever stayed in which had not one single work of art hanging anywhere, the gray walls looking naked and forlorn. Pam immediately sat out stripping the bed looking for bedbugs. Finding none did not calm her nerves. She then gingerly stepped into the bathroom and determined in an instant that there would be no showers taken by either of us for any reason. Our strategy became crystal clear in my wife’s eyes...we would immediately fall asleep, and at the but-crack of dawn we would get the hell out of the Ramada Inn of Pottsville, Pennsylvania and never, ever speak of it again.

While taking Lucy out to pee in the giant parking lot across the street, I happened to glance at our credit card shaped room key. There was Ramada’s slogan emblazoned across it...Ramada Inn...you deserve this.

What, heinous crime against humanity was I or my descendants guilty of that would earn this hotel as its punishment?? As I watched Lucy deposit a prodigious pile just to the left of a loaded dumpster in a dimly lit corner of the parking lot, which was no doubt the scene of many a recent drug deal, I could think of no such transgression. We scurried back across the street and once again up the rattling elevator to our now 90 degree room. All three of us slept with one eye opened.

Yesterday’s drive was long and crowded. 

Lucy is thrilled. I am a new person. Pam had a wonderful shower.

This morning, I woke up to this...

All is well.

Finally.

Why Do We Do This?

When I tell people about the Dunnevant Family Beach Week, I often get this question...Have you taken leave of your senses? To be fair, this is not an entirely inappropriate question. Cramming 19 family members into a single beach house for seven days, for many, would be considered a violation of the Eight Amendment to the Consitution and it’s prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment. Indeed, there are times when the experience does test one’s patience. My comeback to this challenging question has always been a garbled, tortured mess, since it is sometimes hard to put into words the particular charms of this event.

Pictures help.

The first morning of the week I walked out onto the deck to drink my coffee and there was my niece, Darcy. I remember her first year when she was just a baby. Now here she was, a newly minted teenager, up before me, reading a book. Seems like two weeks ago we were all holding her in our laps reading her books.

Family vacations offer rare opportunities for generational interaction. My nephew, Bennett, is enthralled with my son’s video game playing skills. If Patrick is annoyed by his hovering, it doesn’t show. This is the sort of photograph that the two of them will look at years after I’m gone and smile at the memory.

...A rare gathering of the six of us under the same roof, rarer still since this is one of the only times all week where we all are fully clothed and free of sweat, sand and suntan lotion.

A quick side trip to Manteo to reenact Jon’s proposal to my daughter 5 years ago. It was in this exact spot, I’m told. I will resist any reference to how criminals always eventually return to the scene of the crime. Oops...

The women of the family, sunglasses fashionably in place, smiling for the camera on the top of the dunes at Jockeys Ridge. Evelyn, the youngest, already displaying advanced workin’ it skills. This, another photograph that will elicit many fond sighs for years to come. Aww, do you remember how gorgeous it was that night yau’ll?

This tradition, now in it’s 16th attempt, is a historical marker of sorts. Each year is compared to the one before. The locations change, the houses change, the experiences mount and are archived in our collective memories. Where one’s memory fails, another’s fills in the gaps. Still others just make stuff up...using creative license to help the history along. Soon, history becomes myth, and we delight in it.

The Waiting...(is the hardest part)

Tonight after dinner, I entertained the family with the blogs I had written upon the occasion of our arrival at the three previous Dunnevant Family Beach trips...in 2013, 2015, and 2017. It was pointed out by the assembly that I had not yet submitted a similar edition for 2019. Truth me told, I needed a day to decompress. It was quite the arrival.

Salty Paws, this year’s beach house, was rented from the Sound and Surf Realty Company, an organization committed to the twin principles of the customer is always wrong...and anything bad that might happen to the customer is merely the nature of the business. For example...according to the company website, check-in time for their properties is 6:00 pm. Despite this late hour, they assure the customer that should the property become available earlier, a text would be sent to the renter and early entry granted, Indeed, in 2017, when we rented from the same company, we received such a text at 1:00 pm. This year, we decided to shoot the gap and plan on arriving around 3:00. Bad decision. When Pam and I pulled up and discovered that the house had not been cleaned and it was already nearly 4:00 in the afternoon, my sister Paula was already rehearsing her finger-wagging tirade for the first company hack who had the guts to show up to face one of the infamous and dreaded hip-sisters. At roughly 6:00, our guaranteed check-in time, a hapless flunky pulled up in the driveway, and pulled a pack of bed sheets from the trunk of his car! His response to Paula was something about the fact that his company was understaffed, a fact that was definitely not our problem, but most certainly the problem of the Sound and Surf Realty Company...which after Paula’s tongue-lashing should have been renamed the Sound and Fury Realty Company.

By 6:25, all was well, and all 19 of us were allowed to enter the house, right after the wide-eyed cleaning crew had slunk away through a side door. I’m quite sure that these overworked and underpaid folks gave it their best shot, but when you’re pretty sure you can tell what the last family had for dinner last night from the crumbs still on the kitchen counter, you kinda know you’re in trouble. This morning, the first attempt to retrieve a coffee cup from the cabinet yielded a handsome white ceramic mug with a charming lining of fried-on scrambled eggs around the circumference of the interior. My reaction was first frustration at the poor cleaning job, but second and more importanatly...confusion at the question that immediately lept to mind, ie. who eats scammbled eggs out of a coffee mug??

But, time passes and eventually you get over the sanitation issues. I mean, what’s Lysol for if not for this occasion? So, I find a clean mug, pour my coffee and sit down on one of the comfortable but stained rocking chairs when this catches my eye...

Now, normally I’m not the kind of guy who pays much attention to...rules. But, this list of regulations for the use of the hot tub were alarming on many fronts. At the top of the form we are instructed that Hot Tub use is NOT for everyone. What it should have said was...Hot Tub use is not for ANYONE. For instance, how many people in this family over the age of 25 don’t take any prescription drugs? And I had no idea that hypertension and high blood pressure were, in fact, two different ailments?! But, assuming we pass the first prohibited list, the list of rules for use raise several disturbing questions... Take the third item on the list for example...

No use of hot tub if bottom cannot be seen clearly.

What in the Sam Hill is going on at the Sound and Surf Realty Company? I mean who are these people? Are they trying to tell us that we cannot enjoy the hot tub unless we are naked? You would like to give them the benefit of the doubt, but then three bullet points later comes the declaration: Do Not Use Alone. So, they are cool leaving us a filthy beach house, but gleefully encourage lascivious behavior in the hot tub!!

But, now that we all have the first 24 hours under our belt, we are warming up to the place. The air conditioning has been stellar, the plumbing, heroic. The performance of the electricity has been faultless. And although any exploration into a random drawer in the kitchen is liable to produce evidence of previous meals from perhaps years ago, for the most part we are happy with the place.

It’s a shame about that hot tub though...

I Miss These Guys...

What follows is a conversation I had last night with the two guys I recently mentored for 8 months as part of the Mentoring Ministry of Hope Church. I really miss these guys!!