All my summer roads lead to a porch in Maine.
It is late May and I find myself in the basement of my Ohio house sorting through the basket of stuff I’ve collected over the winter. It is time to start packing for our annual trek to Maine and our camp on Little Sebago Lake. The school year is over (I teach) and the grades have been turned in. The neighbor kids will mow the lawn and water the flowers. The paper has been stopped, the paperwork filled out to forward the mail. Blockbuster will send my rental movies to a post office box in Gray, Maine.
In the old days, there used to be car seats and playpens and diaper bags and toys. Not to mention bug spray, sunscreens, ear drops and children’s Tylenol. We had a minivan then, and we towed a small fishing boat back and forth from Ohio. One year, our daughter (who wanted to be a ballerina) packed her tu tu, tiara and tights. She’s now a financial advisor. Our son , who wanted to be a fireman at the time, packed his hard hat and toy axe. Today he works as a substance abuse counselor, helping to put out fires of another kind.
Nowadays I make the journey to Maine with my husband and our geriatric dog, Oliver. Both are housebroken, thank God, but the dog needs to be tranquilized to make the 13-hour drive. We leave next week. I can hardly wait.
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