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.