A Package From My Aunt

Our 15.5 hour trip home is over, we are largely unpacked, and Lucy was ecstatic upon our arrival. All is well. Slipping under the covers of our glorious king sized bed was a nearly divine experience after three weeks sleeping in a not at all King sized bed at Loon Landing. When I step into my shower later today it will feel like walking into a conference room, and when I turn on the water the force of it will feel like a fire hose by comparison! There’s no place like home, I’m told.

One of the first things I do after returning from Maine is going through the pile of mail that has accumulated in my absence. During an election year, the pile is enormous and much more banal and toxic than the usual fare of Bed Bath & Beyond sale flyers and replacement window ads. But, you have to wade through every single item because there’s always the chance you might unknowingly throw away a commission check hidden between the pages of that Valpak circular.  In the midst of the pile I saw that my Aunt Sylvia, who lives in Florida, had mailed me a package. She never mails me a package. It was an old book. It came with this note:

Hi Doug,

I found this little joke book that your Uncle Fred had sent to Jim back in 1963 on his birthday. Enjoy.

Love to you and your sweet family,

Aunt Sylvia

September 17, 2020

Introductions are in order. Aunt Sylvia is my beautiful Aunt, the one who married my mother’s little brother Jim Dixon, on the very week of my birth in 1958. Uncle Jim was about the coolest dude in the world when I was a kid. He was a State Trooper, and an officer in the National Guard. Uncle Fred was my mysterious and endlessly fascinating Uncle, he of the multiple doctorates and vast learning, the exotic Yugoslavian wife and Michigan address. When he was home for visits I remember the way he talked, the words he used, his accent...all strange to me. But he had the warmest smile and it never left his face. Unfortunately, Uncle Jim passed away a few years ago, so Sylvia lives in Florida by herself where she is close to her son and his family. This unexpected package from her warmed my heart. 

I flipped through it expecting a bunch of really corny, dated jokes...and there were a few, but I’ve been pleasantly surprised at its content. I’m thinking that this book will be a source of material for me for years to come. Here’s a few one-liners that were deemed funny enough for inclusion back in the early 60’s...

The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.

Always remember to pillage BEFORE you burn.

Incontinence Hotline...Can you hold, please?

When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will accidentally shoot their kids.

A clear conscience is the sign of a bad memory.

My wife went to a self-help group for compulsive talkers. It’s called On & On Anon.

Not bad. Not bad at all!

Another Beautiful Morning

On the morning of our last full day in Maine for 2020, its 38 degrees outside, pink and still...

I’m writing in front of this...

Pam, made of far sterner stuff, is heading out for another paddle...

We will cram all the fun we can into this day. We are heading into yet another little coastal town that we have ignored all these years—Northport—for brunch at one of the few restaurants that remain open after Columbus Day, a place called The Hoot. I have agreed to this adventure despite the fact that the first item on their breakfast menu is the accursed red flannel hash!! After I survive that the plan is to revisit the cabin on Pitcher Pond to see what it looks like in bright sunshine. Once we arrive back at Loon landing it will be time to start packing up. Apparently, the weather promises a rainy departure Friday morning.

Its been another great year in Maine. We have had a blast. It will be many months before you guys have to endure another onslaught of pictures of lakes and mountains and lobster rolls. But, here’s one last fall foliage shot...

Dreaming Again

Yesterday rain poured down from noon to midnight in torrential buckets, exactly what this drought-stricken state desperately needed. The sound that rain makes on the tin roof over the bedroom is a glorious thing. But, despite the rain, our day was not wasted. We viewed the fourth and final property of our stay in Maine, a cabin on nearby Pitcher Pond. Like every other place we have seen, its complicated. The owners are considering selling, but may decide to rent instead. Our realtor will feel them out on this crucial point shortly, but wanted us to take a look at the place before we left. So, in a driving rainstorm, we did just that. It was charming, quirky, and campy. There was a lot to like. It had the illusive magic that we both require before we can contemplate buying a place. Work needs to be done to parts of the inside and some landscaping work would also be needed, but both Pam and I could picture the family there. The owner hasn’t suggested a selling price. It may end up being beyond our budget, so there’s no point in getting too excited about the place. But, it was fun walking through its rooms and imagining all of us there. Here are a couple of pictures Pam took to give you images to go along with my descriptions...

We have two more days here. We leave Friday morning. The weather looks lovely, sunny and low 60’s both days. Our seven weeks in Maine this year have done both of us a world of good. I can’t speak for Pam, but it has cleared my head, provided much needed perspective, and energized me for whatever follows. Now, if I can just catch a few more bass...

A New Day

This is the latest we have ever been in Maine on vacation...October 12. Woke up this morning to this...

Then I walked out on the deck and saw this...

...a strange cloud/fog bank rolling in from the west on the still as glass surface of the lake. I’m informed that today the sun will shine brightly but the high temperature will be lucky to enter the 50’s. We are just glad that the wind has stopped blowing! I will eventually venture out on the kayak to my favorite fishing hole with my warmest clothes, hat and gloves. Thankfully the lake has been mostly abandoned by the locals so I won’t have to risk being spotted by one of them and silently mocked for dressing like an Eskimo. For many Mainers this is still shorts weather!

Our time here in this glorious place is coming to an end. We can both feel it. We both look at the forecast for our remaining days and sigh. There will be a cold rain beginning late tomorrow, but Wednesday and Thursday look delightful with sunny skies and low 60’s. Friday morning we head home, saying goodbye to Loon Landing, perhaps for the last time. One of the very few drawbacks of buying our own place up here is the fact that we will never get to stay here again. Last night, the owners—Keith and Carolyn May—invited us over to their home for dinner. We were served the most delicious shrimp and grits I have ever had by a woman who has lived most of her life a million miles from Cajun country. They have promised to keep their eyes and ears open for any property that might pop up for sale. But, we will miss Loon Landing. This is the place that inspired us to find a place of our own. It is the place that we compare every other place to during our search—sometimes a problem. Few of the comparisons go well. Nothing we have seen yet quite measures up. We go today to see a fourth cabin on a lake called Pitcher Pond, about 20 minutes from here.

I see where the foolishness of our politics continues unabated without us. Everything we left on September 24th awaits our return. There will be work to do, routines to reestablish, old rhythms to renew. I miss my pup. I miss the size and water pressure of my shower. I miss my recliner. I miss the office and the good people who work there. I miss my church, the wonderful people in my small group, my friends. But...that doesn’t mean I’m anxious to leave. In the time it’s taken me to write this blog, this has happened...

The fog bank is lifting. A loon has appeared. It’s a new day.

Sunday Comics

A Special Kind of Justice

It probably should be against the law to have the kind of day I had yesterday. Brilliant blue skies, a magnificent scenic walk though some of the most stunning real estate to be found anywhere in this country, a hot pastrami sandwich for lunch overlooking Camden Harbor, a roaring fire in the fireplace back at the cabin while watching The Evil Empire’s black heart get broken...is about as good as life gets on planet earth...

The baseball game last night was not supposed to happen, this being 2020 and all. I fully expected the opposite outcome, where might makes right, where he who spends the most money wins, where the team with all the superstars triumphs then rubs it in the faces of the losers. But there I was in the bottom of the 8th inning watching some guy named Mike Brosseau stroll to the plate against the Yankees designated wife beater, Aroldis Chapman. Brosseau, the utility infielder who earns the major league minimum salary, was the same guy who the $15 million dollar a year Chapmen had tried to hit in the head with a 100 mph fastball back in early September, for which he was suspended two games. These two men couldn’t possibly have represented their two clubs any better in such a dramatic and pivotal moment, Brosseau, the unheralded nobody, in the box against the all-star flame throwing stopper for a team whose payroll of $254,000,000 makes the paltry $72 million the Rays dole out look like government assistance. Then it happened. The nobody, the anti-prospect, the guy who had ridden the bench all game turned on one of Chapmen’s 100 mph fastballs and deposited it into the left field seats, sending defenders of truth, justice and the American way all over the fruited plain into hysterical jubilation!! Take that, 2020. 

A Bridge Too Far

Today, Pam and I were in the middle of a delightful excursion to a part of Mid-Coast Maine that we have largely ignored during our many trips here, the gorgeous Rockport Harbor, when I received a text from my friend informing me that she, her husband and grown daughter had all tested positive for COVID. I found a picnic table, sat down and got the details. They are all feeling pretty rough. Surgery that had been scheduled for this week had to be postponed (for the second time) and now all three of them have to go in to quarantine for two weeks. I don’t need to point out the dangers involved when someone, who’s immune system has been weakened by chemo for a year, gets COVID. I am worried sick about her. She ended our conversation with this...I’m not afraid of COVID either, Doug. God’s got this...to which I replied with all the honesty I could muster...Well...I sure wish God would change tactics. I think you’ve had quite enough of this shit.

I’m very aware of God’s mysterious ways and all that, and I also realize that he owes me no explanation for every single bad thing that happens in this world. But news that my friend had come down with COVID seemed like a bridge too far. I’ve watched my friend endure a living hell for over a year now. Every bad thing that possibly could have happened during her treatment, has happened. And now, when she has battled through everything and is within sight of the end of her treatment...she gets freaking COVID?? It’s devastatingly unfair, and it pisses me off. And yet, there she is, sore back, coughing, fever and pains in her joints, stuck in a house with two others that feel every bit as rotten as she does, and what does she do? Assure me that she fears nothing because God is in control. 

Pam and I continued our walk around the harbor taking pictures...

When we got back to the house, I texted her again with a question that had been rattling around my head all afternoon, “Who in the world is going to take care of you guys if you’re all three sick and in quarantine? She answered with, “Some friends we go to church with left our dinner on the porch tonight. We are doing alright...”

When things like this happen, I get angry and sometimes that anger gets directed at God. The thing is...I don’t think he minds the times when I’m most honest with him. I imagine he prefers honest anger to empty, repetitive prayers that we don’t even mean or believe. Usually when I lash out, something soon happens that reminds me of God’s sovereignty in the world. But the fact that I get angry so often is probably evidence that I’m not the world’s greatest Christian, but then again, I’ve never claimed to be. All I know is I have a good friend who is a much better person than I am, who has been sick as a dog for 14 months now and desperately needs to catch a break.