The Last Day

The problem with vacations is that they all have a last day. Today is ours. 

My profession is measured out in numbers, it's how we keep score in the investment business. Everything, eventually, can be reduced to a number. Not so with vacations. Although it doesn't prevent me from trying:

Loon Landing vacation by the numbers:

Only 1 day of rain.

Pam, inexplicably, only ate 1 lobster roll.

Played 2 rounds of golf.

Hosted 2 sets of guests...Russ and Vi White and Alan and Lisa Smith.

Turned the television on 3 times...two games, and the season premiere of This Is Us.

Fell in love with family of 3 loons who continually entertained us for 3 weeks.

Read 5 novels.

Posted photographs of 7 sunsets on Facebook. Could have added 13 others.

Took at last 20 killer naps.

Logged 25 miles of runs/walks on the paths and trails around the cabin, along with 12 miles of kayaking around the lake.

Caught 4 bass, 3 largemouth and 1 smallmouth.

Cooked at least 20 meals on the grill, including steak, hamburger, shrimp, chicken, smoked sausage and foiled potatoes.

On one particularly fabulous run of weather, took 10 consecutive meals outside.

Of course, numbers tell an incomplete story, turning wonderful things into flat, one dimensional digits. Sure, I can tally the number of sunsets, but to understand the beauty and magic you needed to be here. No mere number can describe what it's like to watch the leaves change in slow motion for three weeks. Photographs help, but only a little. I cannot assign a numerical value to the peace that has come over us during our time on this lake. That's the thing about this life, the thing that our parents told us when we were kids...the best things in life can't be measured by numbers. There is so much more to life than the counting of things...how much we have, what we own, the size of this, the heft of that. Too much counting produces men and women who know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

So, every year we come here to banish the numbers from our mind. And each year, there is a last day.

But this day, like all others, is a day that the Lord has made. We will be glad in it.

On The Home Stretch

Our vacation has entered the home stretch, there's just a few days left and we are already trying to banish images of packing up from our imaginations. Weather still holding on to this amazing run of beautiful, sunny days and crisp, cool nights. It might make it easier to leave this place if it would get rainy and cold, but no such luck. Last night we drove into Camden to have dinner at Sea Dog's, the replacement for our beloved Cappy's, which used to serve the best clam chowder in the world, but now serves clam chowder with a strange spice in it which disappoints. 

Besides, nothing Sea Dog's ever does will be able to top this awesome hat I bought at Cappy's on the occasion of their 25th anniversary back in 2005.

This morning I will be heading into the offices of our fabulous rental company, On The Water In Maine, to begin plotting and scheming next year's four week adventure. I will lay out my must-haves and throw out some possible dates, and they will get to work. We can't actually make 2018 reservations prior to November 1st or something, but we must begin the search right away. Next summer will be tricky. There will be a wedding at some point next year. That may make it difficult for Patrick and Sarah to take a week in Maine after having already taken time off for a honeymoon. Also, funds will be tighter since I will, no doubt, have spent a bundle on the blessed event. But, this is the sort of thing I do. I excel at making things happen when it comes to my children. If I have to fly the two of them up here on a Friday and fly them back on a Sunday, well, so be it. There's a chance that Jon and Kaitlin might be able to come for two weeks. Then there's Ron and Paula, and Gordon and Leigh Ann....probably need to find a bigger house for next year. But, I would love to find one on this lake. Quantabacook is about as perfect a place as we have ever stayed up here. And, if this house had one more bathroom I might be tempted to shoehorn everybody into Loon Landing next year too!

Woke up with a sore throat this morning, which is a bit unsettling, since I hardly ever get sick in Maine, or at least...it's been a while since I have. It's probably God's judgement on me for foolishly getting involved in ( i.e...starting) a Facebook political dispute yesterday about the NFL protests. That was a rookie mistake that you would think a seasoned Maine vacationer wouldn't have made. The key to happiness up here is to stay fully disengaged for the duration. I should have known better. So I wake up with a sore throat. God is just, and he will not be mocked! There will be no more of that!!!

Almost finished Empire Falls. Holy Cow, can Richard Russo write. I can't wait to read everything else he has written. Of course, if you can't write inspired prose sitting at a table at the Camden Deli every morning overlooking the bay, then you should probably give it up.

The Time Thief

Regular readers of this blog might be wondering what has happened to me this past week. After a deluge of lake pictures and vacation posts, I inadvertently went dark and have maintained radio silence for over five days. This was not intentional. It was not due to some creative deficiency or writer's block. Rather, I have been hypnotized by this place into something very much like a trance. While enthralled by Quantabacook , I have found it surprisingly easy to tear myself away from the gravitational pull of my former habits. Instead of writing this blog, I've been occupied with a series of new daily rhythms, which include but are by no means limited to, kayaking, fishing, reading, running hastily constructed 5k tracts through the woods, taking Lucy for walks, floating on inflatable rafts, taking my meals on a wooden table on the deck while Pam and I sometimes talk, but mostly just stare at the lake, soaking up the silence. It is this last thing, this staring at the lake, that has risen to the top of the distraction list. It's hard to explain how such a mindless, effortless, seemingly passive exercise could become such a show-stopper, but...let me try.

I wake up between 6:00 and 6:30 in the morning. Upon entering the main living room of the house, the first thing I do is walk over to the wall of windows that face the lake. 

There is always a rush of expectation. Will it be calm or choppy? Clear, or fogged in? Most days it's been calm and clear, since we have won the weather lottery by choosing September of 2017 for this trip. Locals can't believe how warm and beautiful it's been here since we arrived. We are taking full credit for bringing this weather with us through a combination of Southern benevolence and clean living, global warming be damned. After this morning reconnaissance, I allow myself the distraction of making coffee. 

The only deficiency we have found in this lake house is it's lack of comfortable seating. The two chairs and sofa are fine but don't lend themselves to long, leasurely reading sessions...but I make do. This past few days it's been a book by my new favorite author, Richard Russo and his Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Empire Falls. I cannot for the life of me figure out how I have gone 59 years without reading this guy. His stuff always pops up in books you might like when I'm browsing iBooks, and I've known of him forever, but for some reason, never read any of his work. Well, imagine my surprise when I open this one to the acknowledgement page and see this:

Come to find out, the guy has a house up Main Street just past the library and used to come in to the Deli and write every morning. Richard Russo won a Pulitzer for a novel he wrote at the freaking Camden Deli! I'm hooked. Now that Pat Conroy is dead, I've needed a new literary hero. I've found him.

After a robust morning read, Pam eventually emerges from the bedroom in her kayaking outfit, a snappy pink thing that clashes horribly with her bright red kayak, causing her great anguish, but not enough to prevent her from launching out into the deep for a 3-4 mile meander around the lake. I watch her get smaller and eventually disappear around the point, ripples trailing behind her. I watch the sun spread out its warmth to the houses across the way..the morning sun houses. Pam is jealous. She wants morning sun...right up to the point in the day when those houses across the way are in the shade and our dock is splashed in sunlight from around 1:30 in the afternoon until the last rays dip behind the pines at sunset. Then she's content with what we have. She eventually gets back, and we have some sort of breakfast, usually on the table outside. On the days I run, it's something lighter. Now that our last guests have left, it will be less regimented...if you can call a meal with no start time and no fixed menu..regimented.

Then, I'll fish a little. I've caught three nice sized bass this year, and learned how to fish effectively with crank baits, earning significant upgrades to my man card. However, I haven't let the fishing interfere with the real business of my days here in Maine. My job has been to keep a sharp eye peeled on this lake and all of its surroundings. I watch for the appearance of the Loon pair who own this lake, a Mother Loon and a juvenile. They pop up at various times, sometimes as close as twenty feet from the end of our dock..which drives poor Lucy crazy. Just about the time she is about to explode in excitement, they will suddenly disappear, diving below for fish. This vanishing act is a source of great wonderment for Lucy...What happened?? Where did they go? 

I watch for the arrival of wind, if it comes at all, it usually arrives mid-morning. Ripples start sliding in from the north or sometimes the west. After a while the ripples upgrade to a discernible current, then what can be called waves arrive. When the waves get large enough, the dock starts to bob up and down, which used to emit an annoying metal screech in the joints of the dock until I bought the last bottle of WD-40 from the Fraternity Village store and put a stop to that outrage. Mid-morning brings an hour of sun to the dock surface from 10:00 to 11:00. I take advantage by moving a chair out there in it to warm up. Mornings are chilly here, no matter how warm it gets during the day.

Then, Pam and I are always astounded to discover that somehow it is now 2 o'clock in the afternoon and we haven't had lunch. How on earth does this happen? Seriously?? How can it be 2 o'clock? I mean, we've done virtually nothing all day. Sure, there was the kayaking, the fishing and increasingly Pam's paddle boarding...but 2 o'clock? It is a great mystery where the time goes here.

So, we have a snacky lunch. Then, more lake watching. When the afternoon sun arrives in our cove, I swim and take Lucy out for a swim and a frisbee fetching session. Then, maybe a nap.

Eventually, we are always baffled when we discover that it's now 6:30 in the evening and we're still floating out in the lake talking about the kids, having made zero preparations for dinner. Again, the great time thief has struck. We shrug and watch the sun disappear.

Different Year, Same Result.

The weather has finally turned on us. After ten days of perfect conditions, the past couple of days have been overcast, foggy, and filled with drizzle. It was bound to happen. Yesterday was a lazy day. Pam took Russ and Vi to the airport in Portland. While they were gone, I caught a beautiful bass off the end of my dock with a fancy lure that my buddy Alan had loaned me. 

I took a quick picture of it because if I hadn't, he would never have believed me. 

So, today will feature a leasurely trip into Camden for breakfast and some shopping. I need a new book to read. I've read three novels on this trip, only have one more left on my iPad, and need another to reach my goal of five books read on vacation. So, I will browse through a couple of the great bookshops in Camden until I find something that intrigues me. Then we will come back to the cabin to check on Lucy. If the weather is still cloudy and gross, we will spend the afternoon exploring the town of Belfast, around 15 minutes away. 

Last night, after dinner, my wife and I renewed our Rummikub competition from last year. Alert readers will recall the beatdown she laid on me on last year's Maine adventure. Well, so far this year, nothing has changed. A few nights ago, we played probably ten hands of Gin...she won seven. Last night, she won two out of the three games we played. It's the same thing every year...the woman is a cold blooded killer. 

Come...Walk With Me.

I've taken a thousand photographs in Maine, probably a hundred or more of this place alone. It begs to have its picture taken. But, I'm so often disappointed in how they turn out, not because they are blurry or ill-centered, but rather because they never seem to capture the magic. 

Except for a special few, when you say, Ahh, that's it!

This is the one.

It doesn't matter where I took it. This shot doesn't need context. This photograph captures everything I love about Maine. It's an invitation. It stands before you like a great mystery. Where does it lead? How far? Is it dangerous or tranquil, treacherous or benign? It's impossible to tell. Still, it beckons you with the invitation...Come, walk with me.

But, I don't know where it will take me.

We will find out together. Come, walk with me.

I'm tired. This is not a good day for such an uncertain walk.

All of life is uncertain. Come, walk with me.

But, I've too much on my mind right now. My kids, I'm just too worried about my kids to enjoy a walk.

Come, walk with me and I'll show you the reason you wanted to have kids in the first place.

How can I take such a walk when I'm so worried about my job? I don't even know if I'll ever be able to retire.

If you will walk with me, you'll be better at your job.

You don't understand. Have you read a newspaper lately? Trump is in the White House. They're tearing down statues, and driving cars into crowds of young people!

There is no racial hatred where I will take you, and nobody here knows who the president is...come walk with me.

But, there might be ticks.

Hush...when did you get so fragile? Come, walk with me.

I want to, I really do...

There was once a time when you would have run down this path without even thinking. What happened to that guy?

I don't know. I grew up.

No, you grew inward. Come, walk with me and I will reintroduce you to the person you used to be.

How long will it take?

As long as you like. 

Come...walk with me.

Apparently, There Was an Awards Show Last Night

One of the biggest advantages to staying at a lake house in Maine is the fact that you never watch television. Sure, there's one here and the satellite connection is quite good. I know this because, Saturday a week ago, I turned it on to watch part of a college football game. It hasn't been on since. In its place, I have read three novels. I already feel smarter.

So, I cannot offer an opinion on the EMMY's show last night, since I didn't watch. Apparently, it was a three hour Trash Trump Fest. The fact that anyone would be surprised is baffling to me. Who cares, people? It's Hollywood, and they have First Amendment rights too, so chill out!

Meanwhile, a much more important bit of news is the fact that we are finally supposed to get a cloudy day, all day. If so, it will be the first since we arrived eleven days ago. We are at the half way point of our vacation. Tomorrow, Russ and Vi fly back to Richmond. That means that today we will be heading to Hazel's for a lobster roll lunch. Then we might do some sightseeing along the coast. Only supposed to be in the 60's. Perfect weather for a sweater and some ocean scenery. If I stumble upon any permanent damage done by any of those Trump-trashing one liners from last night's EMMY broadcast, I'll take pictures!

Cry, The Beloved Country...

A quiet day at the lake, foggy at dawn, then brilliant sun in the afternoon. I drove into Belfast to play a round of golf at a course I had picked out online. When I got there, there was a tournament being played which wasn't disclosed on their website. The guy in the Prop Shop acted like he didn't even know they had a website. But, he was kind enough to inform me that there was another course north of town that I could get on with...no problem. He was right. I pulled up into the Searsport Pines Golf Club and my vehicle doubled the number of cars in the parking lot...not a good sign.

The good news...I walked 18 holes in a mere 2 hours and 3 minutes. The bad news...I shot an 88 on what was possibly the worst golf course I have ever set foot on. This place had fairways that owe cow pastures an apology. But, I walked 5.64 miles, got in some practice, and redeemed my trip by stopping at the Hannaford's in Belfast for a bag of marshmallows, and a bunch of other necessities Pam had added to a list she had sent via text. Tonight we are having a shrimp boil or some such thing which involves sausage, so I'm excited.

Tonight, thanks to my buddy Alan Smith, we will be having a campfire with freshly chopped Maine pine from Alan's personal woodpile. It comes with much hype, guaranteed to burn hot and make lots of crackling sounds. I still don't have a decent poker. The one that came with the cabin is an embarrassment, extremely short and dysfunctional for what it's alleged purpose is supposed to be. I will make do until Alan brings something more manly when they come back to visit next weekend.

I finished, the great Alan Paton classic, Cry, The Beloved Country the other day. When I was a sophomore at Uof R I took a survey of western literature class in which I was given the task of picking five novels to read out of a list of ten or so. Cry, was on the list and I didn't pick it as one of my five. I had been meaning to circle back and read it ever since. Now, 39 years later, I find it in the bookcase here at Loon Landing. Time flies...

So, this book was written in 1948 by a nobody reform school principle from South Africa. He had never been published and wrote the thing while traveling in Europe and the US touring other reform schools. Some American friends of his read it and promised to try to get it published, submitting it, unsolicited, to Scribner. That never works, right? Yeah, well, lucky for Scribner...the book was a sensation, the critics loved it, and it sold like hot cakes, allowing Mr. Paton to live well the rest of his life, and turn his full attention to writing and the brewing conflict in his country.

In many ways, the racial history of South Africa is the opposite of ours in that the Afrikaners and Europeans who ruled that land were in the small minority. The great indigenous tribes that far outnumbered these white settlers where kept in second class status during these pre-apartheid days and trouble was brewing when Paton began to write. Throw in several different languages, a thriving gold mining industry, duplicitous politicians, and racial violence and an exploding crime wave and you've got a volatile mess. But, Paton resists the temptation to write a political book, or even a book about revolution or even race. He writes about the human heart and its great capacity for both love and hatred, grace and vengeance. Most of all he writes about a country that he loves, despite the wickedness that is everywhere around him. His story doesn't absolve the white ruling class of their sins, he doesn't pull any punches on who the main villains are, but neither does he lay every South African pathology at their feet. There is a lot of blame to go around in his beautiful, beguiling homeland. He examines the hearts and motives of the labor unions and agitators within the black liberation movements, applauds them where they deserve it and cristicizing them when they don't. The famous line still resonates...I have one great fear in my heart, that one day when they are turned to loving, they will find that we are turned to hating.

It was a beautiful read, full of evocative prose that made you at once hopeful and sad. I couldn't help but draw rough parallels to the race conflicts in my country. I only wish that someone would rise up to write something as rich and moving about how we should move forward. 

Great book. Worth the read and then some.