I spend Independence Day in Maine. The weather is great, the company is great,
and the driving there and back is also great.
Amazing for a holiday, especially one as nice as this is on the heels of
a week of unsettled, miserable, intermittently stormy skies.
It starts out well enough -- I actually wake up on time,
have stuff packed, and am out of the house fifteen minutes later than
planned. My objective is to hit the Hampton
Tolls by 9:30 lest I end up sitting in traffic for an extra hour. I kick myself for my delayed start and think
the traffic congestion might swerve me off course and force me through the back
roads of New Hampshire. I remain hopeful
as I pull out of the driveway and cross Main Street less than a half mile from
my house. Hopeful, that is, until I get
through the first traffic light and end up behind Gramps.
Look, if you're so old that you pull out in front of people
as if you don't see the line of moving vehicles (he probably doesn't) and so
old that you cannot even attempt the speed limit (35 mph, yet Gramps is barely
hitting 20 mph), GET THE FRIK OFF THE ROAD ALREADY.
I manage to get around Gramps (I think he may have expired
and drifted into the breakdown lane at some point), and then continue up Route 125,
avoiding the highway for as long as possible.
I brace myself for the lines of traffic and mentally run the alternate
routes, but it turns out to be unnecessary.
There are a few brake lights, and there are a couple of times when the
speed limit ends up topping off at 60 mph, but I don't slow down until I hit
the tolls, where there are no lines -- NO LINES, PEOPLE, AT THE BEACH ON THE
FOURTH OF JULY AFTER DAYS OF CRAPPY WEATHER.
I don't hit the brakes again until the Piscataqua Bridge at
the Maine border, and even then traffic continues moving. I suspect for a minute I have taken a wrong
turn and ended up on the Vermont-New Hampshire border when all I can find on
the radio are country western stations.
I have driven to Maine hundreds of times, maybe more, and I've never encountered
so much country music in my entire life.
It is as if I have suddenly been plopped down in Alabama. There are even some rock songs that have morphed
into country ballads. I know the world
had gone haywire when I pull into the town center to the tunes of Tennessee
Ernie Ford. Americana, yes, but a bit
much, just the same.
I arrive at my destination in Southern Maine in the usual
allotted travel time, despite the holiday.
I start with my usual activities -- bringing everything inside and spreading
out like I own the place, chasing the dog around, and aggravating my sister and
her family. We spread out some healthy
food, crack some jokes, then notice that the sun is doing something it hasn't
done too much of lately: shining more than hiding.
QUICK! INTO THE POOL!
Growing up my sister was always the one who would jump right
in, no matter how cold the water, and make fun of me for my slow entry,
shivering at every inch of immersion.
Maybe it's the extensive beach time I've put in since going without a
pool the last few decades, including two Aprils ago when it hit 90 degrees and
I tried to get in to the freezing ocean water (made it up to my ankles). Maybe it's the extra body fat I carry around
at my age. This time, though, my sister
is the one edging in and I'm the one who just bites it and slides into the
water.
Well, that's not precisely true. I get in up to my armpits and start
screeching out high notes in soprano, which is unusual since I sing alto. The water, though 74 degrees and climbing, is
enough to push the air right out of my lungs for about four minutes. Four very long minutes. After we've adjusted to the water, we
promptly stay in the pool for three hours.
At one point the clouds completely dissipate, and for a short time, for
the very first time in over a week, nothing is visible except clear blue skies.
 |
| (CSI Maine - - Where's the body?) |
It's amazing how easily we revert to being juvenile when in
the pool. I noticed it when my brothers
came to visit a few years back. They
were whacking each other with pool noodles, having smack-downs in the water,
and attempting spectacular jumps and spins into tubes, as if they were six all
over again. My sister and I pick up the
slack since our brothers are absent, and we start making currents, splashing
her kids, dumping my nephew out of his floatation device, playing bumper-tubes,
and spinning around in the water until we feel like puking.
After working our stomachs into a tizzy, we do what any
normal adults would do: We BBQ dinner
and eat. And eat, and eat, and eat. Good stuff, though, like steak and chicken
and salad and fruit and sweet potato fries…
We top it all off with a chocolate pudding pie (with Oreo crust, of
course) because cake is too fattening and would require a return trip into the
pool.
After dinner my sister makes me play dress-up, which we
haven't done since we were pre-teens. We
are playing with all of her costume jewelry she uses for her performances as a
vocalist in and around Portland, trying to decide if any of it will work for
the two weddings we will attend this fall.
I'd say I can't remember the last time we had this much fun, but, in
truth, the last time we had this much fun was the last time I came to visit. We always have this much fun when we're
together, we always laugh this hard.
It's scary, and it's hard on the bladder.
I leave later than I think they want me to, but saying
goodbye is something we're not good at in my family. We start at it about an hour before we truly
expect to make the final wave, and phone calls are pretty much the same. I get back onto the highway, and have clear
sailing the entire way home. No one is
at the Hampton Tolls because anyone who drove up to fight for a beach spot this
morning has settled in for the evening fireworks. I listen to patriotic music, singing along in
my car like a nutcase, windows wide open until I hit Massachusetts and realize
that, unlike Maine, it is still as muggy and warm as hot pea soup down
here. I can see some of the fireworks
coming from surrounding cities and towns on my way home, and I miss the Boston
Pops' rendition of the 1812 Overture
on television (but hear it on the radio just miles from home).
I am completely relaxed (a no-stress day, plus the pool
helped), so I hit the shower, then pull up the few photos I took while there --
much less than usual since my kids didn't accompany me this time and we're
missing one niece who is in the Marines and currently stationed in New Orleans. It's the first time in a long time that I've
altered my plans from the usual zoo visit and driving range Independence Day
Extravaganza, so I'll have to force my kids to reenact that adventure with me
as soon as the heat index falls below 100 degrees, which should be sometime
after the next six days. In the
meantime, though, I'm going to hunker down by the air conditioner and soak in
the remainder of the holiday weekend.
Happy Independence Day and beyond, people. Until Monday rolls around again, relax and
enjoy. We've all earned it.
