We’re almost ready to make our car trip to our place on Little Sebago Lake in Maine. In one more week, we’ll be on the road.
We’ve already packed camp stuff we have collected over the winter and stuffed it into big plastic trash bags because they fit better into the trunk of our mid sized car. We packed each bag’s contents according to the room in which it will be stored once we get to Little Sebago Lake. For Christmas, someone has given us a set of towels with moose motif —into the bathroom bag they go, along with the biodegradable shampoo I ordered from a “green” website. It’s supposed to be better for the septic system. We know it’s better for the earth and the lake. In the kitchen bag is a box of panko bread crumbs—something I can’t get in the little Maine store at which I like to grocery shop. Into the bedroom bag is the new bathing suit I got on sale at Target last fall.
Mostly, there are books. I’ve been collecting them all fall and winter and spring—some I ordered so I can continue the research project I hope to pursue in the summer—this year, the topic is Arctic exploration. I want to write a children’s book about Marie Peary, daughter of the Arctic explorer.
Most of the other books I’ve packed are fiction. I order these books “used” from an online book store. My pleasure reading tastes are eclectic—historical fiction, mysteries, personal narrative, the occasional romance. I always include at least one volume of poetry, something I read only in the summer. I don’t know why that is.