The Chestnut Street Baptist Church Clock Tower

This year is the first time we have stayed in a hotel in Camden prior to moving into our lake house. It was Pam’s idea to beat the 4th of July traffic by driving up during the week. It has ended up being a delight. Although it has been chilly, rainy and overcast the entire time of our stay, we have loved being here.

Want to play some music? Management provides instruments for its patrons…

Or maybe you would like to sit around a fire after dinner…

…and make s’mores…

But honestly the best part of this experience has been something that sneaks up on you. You don’t always notice it but when you do it serves the same function as Prozac or a stiff drink…

That clock tower in the distance sits atop the Chestnut Street Baptist Church, directly adjacent to the town green. It is one of the most iconic sites in Camden. No matter where you are in town, when you lift your eyes skyward, its there, performing its orienting purpose better than any GPS possibly could. But as an incalculable bonus, every hour on the hour it tolls out the time. This morning I was sitting at a table in the dining room drinking coffee and catching up on the news when through closed windows I heard the soothing sound. Seven gentle peals, each one clear and cheerful, cutting through the dreary clouds. I wonder if the locals even hear it anymore. I decide that when 8 o’clock comes around I will be outside on the front steps so I can hear the full effect. Eight calming notes that tell me that I’m alive and in this place, right here…right now. And, if I’m lucky enough to still be here an hour from now, I’ll hear it again. It’s reassuring, dependable. In a world that has become scattered and unmoored, the Chestnut Street Baptist Church clock tower is…steadfast and true.

I believe I would love to live in a place with a clock tower.

Arrived!!

We made it! The traffic was manageable, the car performed beautifully, and we arrived in Camden at 3:30 yesterday afternoon. We would have arrived two hours earlier if not for an unexpected discipline lapse on my part. As soon as we crossed the Big Green Bridge and entered Maine Pam made an off hand suggestion that maybe this year we should take Number 1 highway up the coast and “Find a cute little town where we can have lunch.” 99% of the time, this is the sort of thing I summarily dismiss since it would be considered a time consuming detour that would totally kill the “great time we’re making.” But, there I was hearing myself saying, “great idea, let’s do it!!” What the heck? Pam was simultaneously shocked and thrilled. We ended up in Freeport, eating lunch at Linda’s Bean’s place where my first cup of clam chowder was heavenly.

Then, in yet another shocking development, I agreed to an hour or more of mindless sight-seeing around town….who have I become??!!

Got some coffee at this sweet place:

Pam got to go inside a Wicked Whoopies store for the first time ever. We came out with a bag full.

Then, we found an awesome store that sold nothing but British goods:

As soon as I entered the place I loved it. It smelled like wool and fog, and was filled with beautiful things. But the best part of the store was the fact that whoever owns the place still has a sense of humor and isn’t afraid…in the age of triggers and safe spaces…to use it :

I’m not sure what’s funnier, the stiff upper lip balm, or the fact that it’s made by the Unemployed Philosophers Guild??

We eventually meandered up the coast to our Camden Hotel, which will be our home for the next two days until lake house number one becomes available Saturday afternoon. It’s pouring rain today so we will be lazing around this gorgeous little town, drinking coffee, shopping and reading. Tomorrow we might go see a couple lake houses that are on the market. Or…not. This is where agendas go to die.

I didn’t plan it this way, but our third floor room has a direct view of my wife’s favorite ice cream joint in Maine:

Unfortunately, by the time we made our way back from our leisurely walk around town, the wait was ridiculous. Did we get in line? What? Are you kidding? Of course.

Pam…the Boss

My wife is a boss. Over the past several days she has been working like a beast around here all the while battling through a cold. Not only is the entire house squeaky clean for our house-sitters, but her world class packing skills have once again been put on display….

All I have to do is get it loaded into the car. There are still a couple duffle bags upstairs, but basically all of this was Pam.

I’m telling you guys, this woman walks on water! Of course, nobody’s perfect. Yesterday she forgot that the car top carrier was sitting on the roof of her car when she returned from the grocery store. Upon entering the garage she heard a horrifying scraping sound and slammed on the brakes, then slowly backed up to the sound of more scraping! Fortunately, the carrier survived the ordeal, although the next time she was driving back home from some errand I thought to send her a text,”FYI, you’ve got a big thing strapped to the roof of your car, so…” Her reply suggested that if not for my text the same mistake would have been repeated. Muscle memory is a powerful thing!

Ok kids…time to pack up and hit the road. AIS* time is 7:45. Why such an odd time? Well, Pam forget to bring Becky Baldwin’s birthday gift to their lunch date the other day so she couldn’t possibly leave for Maine for 5 weeks without running it by their house on the way. 

* Ass In Seat

An observation…and some really bad jokes.

Today is packing day. Its also the day where a thousand last minute details need to be taken care of. Leaving your house for 5 weeks isn’t as easy as we make it look! So, as my dear mother used to say, we’ll be running around like a chicken with it’s head cut off. By the way…this was no abstract colloquialism to my mother, who as a ten year old was tasked with actually cutting the head off a chicken to start preparing it for dinner. After the hatchet came down, the unfortunate bird ran around the barnyard for several minutes before succumbing to its fate, making a lasting impression on my mom. But instead of years of psycho-analysis, mom just moved on, got married and raised four kids. It was a different world.

Since this will be my last blogpost for a few days while we travel to Maine and get settled once there, I need to make it memorable. The jokes I have chosen for the occasion were carefully selected for their cringe-worthiness. I left no stone unturned to uncover these beauties:

Where does a coffee maker go when it dies?

Percolatory…

Went to a restaurant with my parents and they were arguing about whether ordering the fries or salad were better to go with the meal so they asked me my opinion.

I said, "Oh, no. I'm not picking sides"

I work in a factory that makes clown shoes.

It’s no small feet…

Last night I experimented cooking some Ribeyes with cannabis oil.

Not gonna lie, the steaks were pretty high…

One last thing, I’m running a little low on toll money so you guys need to click on a few ads here so I don’t get stranded in Connecticut on the side of the interstate with a tin cup!!

One more last thing. Killed squirrels number 20 and 21 of the year yesterday…an all-time record before July 1st!!

We’re Goin’ to Maine

There is something that I have noticed about being married and that is that human beings have a tendency to drift apart. It seems hardwired into our DNA. The extreme version of this tendency is captured in the phrase, Familiarity Breeds Contempt. This drifting is one of the things that successful marriages find a way to overcome. Every marriage needs to find something that transcends the drifting, the indifference that can so easily creep into even the most solid of relationships. For Pam and me that transcendent thing is…Maine.

She started it. She was born there. She had the history in her bones and blood. For me, I had it thrust upon me. It was an acquired taste. But, because I loved her, I was curious enough to give it a try. Although my first trip up there was while we were still dating and got off to a famously horrible start, in the first light of my very first day there, I was hooked. I had never seen so beautiful a place as Webb Lake in Weld, Maine. Thus began a 39 year streak of annual summer visits. Burdened by a two year old and a newborn? No problem. Stick them in their car seats at 7:00 at night and drive straight through the night to get there so we can live in a tent for a week. I’m sure that sounds positively dreadful to anyone reading this who has or has ever had a two year old and a newborn, but in a miraculous way…every word of it is true.

Over fifty years ago, when my wife and her sister Sharon would lay awake in bed the night before leaving for Maine, they started something that has survived all these years, handed down to us and even to my own children. They would lay in the darkness, giddy with excitement, and whisper to each other the enchanting incantation, “We’re goin’ to Maine…we’re goin’ to Maine.”  Patrick and Kaitlin took it up when they were little. “We’re goin’ to Maine…” Now, fifty years later, Pam comes down the steps after her morning shower, sees me sitting on the sofa and whispers across the room, “We’re goin’ to Maine.”

Maine has united the two of us over the years. It’s become something that both of us have a passion for. In so doing it has brought us closer together. We share a love for the place. We both know that no matter how difficult life gets…We’re goin’ to Maine. When we get there, it starts to change us. We feel different, eventually we start to look different. Then we start noticing each other again. We remember why it is that we love each other. Being there brings out the best in us and stops the drifting dead in its tracks. Never is my wife more beautiful than when she is on her paddle board. Never am I so content as I am having my morning coffee on the dock.

So, for all of my married friends out there, find a Maine. Search for a transcendent place or thing that unites you. Then, make it yours.

We’re goin’ to Maine!!

Those Florida Cops Need to Chill Out

Sometimes, dad jokes just write themselves, especially when it concerns a Florida man.

This morning at an ungodly early hour, I read a story that began this way:

“June 25. A Florida man was arrested this morning at a 7-Eleven in St. Petersburg for throwing a 15 ounce jar of Tostitos salsa at a fellow patron with such force that it broke open on the man’s back. The assailant, Le’Trail Tresalus, was arrested for the unprovoked attack and charged with felony battery.”

But the very best part of this story was the epic headline:  Man is Charged With a Salsa and Battery.

Outstanding!! What do you want to bet that the headline writer was a dad?

However, the case gets even better once we learn that the 6’ 2”, 300 pound perp, the aforementioned Le’Trail Tresulas was also facing a theft charge for allegedly stealing a Choco Taco ice cream bar from the same 7-Eleven. 

Hmmm…several observations come to mind.

I have no idea what was going through Le’Trail’s mind when he threw the Tostitos fastball into that poor guy’s back, but I’m not sure how I feel about the ice cream arrest. I mean …its hot in Florida this time of year. Locking a guy up for stealing ice cream seems a bit cold to me. At the very least its a second-dairy offense. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not cone-doning theft here, but its not like he stole 31 flavors or anything. That would have been a Baskin-Robbery. Besides, there is such a thing as buying too much ice cream…Breyer’s Remorse. Are we really going to send a man to prison for stealing ice cream? Seriously? Is that just desserts? 

Listen, here’s the scoop. I’m sure Le’Trail has had a rocky road of a life and he has enough problems with this Tostitos throwing thing. I say we drop the ice cream charge. I mean…it is Florida we’re talking about so anything is popsicle…

The Divine Spark

You’re in your mid 50’s, married for over 35 years to a good man. You have grown children and several beautiful grandchildren. Life is good. Then one day you’re shopping at Walmart when your cell phone rings. You glance at it and don’t recognize the caller. Probably one of those robo-calls trying to sell you an extended warranty on a car you no longer even own, but you answer it anyway. The man on the other end of the line identifies himself as a Virginia State Trooper. Instantly your mind fills with a thousand nightmares. Someone’s been in an accident or worse. You brace yourself for his next words, but nothing can prepare you for what you hear…that your husband has collapsed at work and that the State Trooper needs to speak to you in person, face to face, as soon as possible. Everything else is a blur. There, in the middle of Walmart surrounded by strangers, you collapse under the crushing weight of the news.

But, we go nowhere by accident. At this point, with everything crashing down, you are approached by two strangers, a couple who look to be in their early 40’s. The woman speaks, “Ma’am, what’s wrong dear? Are you alright?”

You don’t remember exactly what you said in response, but it was conveyed with terrible anguish, “My husband is dead!!”

Then the strangers take over. They take you to somewhere you can sit down. The woman puts her arms around you and holds on tight. Your son is notified and he is on the way to pick you up. The kind woman tells you, “I will stay right here with you until your son arrives, ok?” And she does. She and her husband stay there doing their best to comfort you.

The rest of the day proves to be the worst of your life. You soon start having chest pains of your own and wind up in the emergency room. “Broken heart syndrome,” the doctor calls it. You stay overnight for tests. Your children gather around you. Things have to be done. There’s the funeral home arrangements. You just can’t. You’re not able, so your grown children take over. You are left in the grip of unimaginable grief. Your happy life has been turned upside down. With all the doctors and nurses and family buzzing around you and your heart broken over such monumental grief…you think of that couple at Walmart, you whisper a prayer for their kindness and compassion. You are so thankful that they took the time to stop whatever they were doing to stay with you during those first terrifying moments when you were at your worst. What would you have done without them?

This is not fiction. This isn’t the opening sequence of some new story I’m writing. This actually happened to a friend of mine a couple of days ago. It shouldn’t matter and it doesn’t matter, but since this is 2021 I feel compelled to mention that the couple who came to my friend’s aid in that Walmart were African-American. 

We live in a time of great racial tension and unrest. Every encounter between people from different races seems fraught with peril. The only stories we see in the media are bad ones. But the story I just shared and ones just like it that happen every day across this country don’t end up on the nightly news. My friend, a white woman in deep pain, gets approached by an African American couple who see her pain and can only think to stop whatever they were doing to come along side a total stranger, a fellow human being in great distress, to offer kindness, support and grace at the hour of her greatest need. They did so anonymously. They will get no credit for it, no accolades will come their way. But this story and it’s telling in this space hopefully will serve as a reminder that all of us has within us a spark of the divine, the better angles of our character which so often rise to the occasion. For my friend, it was strangers at Walmart who showered upon her their love and concern, offering the one single ray of light in a day of profound darkness.

Who will you be a ray of light to today?