Dark Clouds

Every school shooting is awful, but I was especially horrified by the one in Minneapolis yesterday. Beyond the pathos of children being shot as they gathered in the sanctuary for the first mass of the year,  perhaps the fact that the Catholic school that was targeted was only about three-and-a-half miles from where my mother lived also made this attack seem close to home. My mom would have been so upset with such a senseless act of violence, and in her neighborhood, too.

When someone dies, it's common to regret all the happy occasions, holidays, graduations, weddings, and other milestones that they will miss. However, since 2019, there has also been a litany of bad news that I'm glad my mom did not have to endure. 

Cannery Row

When I agreed to split a half bushel of peaches with a neighbor this weekend, I had forgotten that I ordered a half bushel of tomatoes to be delivered today. I got my peaches on Sunday, and with the freshness clock ticking, I have been preserving the ones we haven't eaten ever since. Monday, I dehydrated a half-dozen as an experiment, and then yesterday, I added them and some toasted pecans to a buckwheat sourdough bread dough.

This morning I finished baking the loaves just as the tomatoes were delivered. After I prepped another half dozen peaches for dehydration, I decided to make peach jelly, which is more technical than jam, as it requires the extra step of making juice and straining it several times. That part was kind of fun (and it used up a lot of peaches), although as the process dragged on, the box of tomatoes on the table did weigh on me a bit. The end result was eight half-pint jars filled with beautiful red-gold jelly.

Once the jelly was jarred, I turned my attention to the tomatoes, boiling water to skin them, then chopping and salting the chunks. I filled thirteen quart jars with the diced tomatoes and proceeded to the hot water processing. Unfortunately, by then, it was apparent that my jelly, as pretty as it was, was not setting, and a minute later, an acidic smell alerted me to the sad fact that one of the jars had broken in the water bath. 

I confess, I was a little dismayed by these setbacks, but what can I do? Shit happens, and I still have 12 quarts of tomatoes, along with the prospect of re-cooking the jelly with more pectin tomorrow. 

My Word

Earlier this month, I sent birthday greetings to a friend and former colleague. "Thanks," she replied. "What's my birthday word?"

She was remembering a silly tradition I started years ago when I got my first "Word of the Day" desk calendar. Students and adults alike were fascinated by it, and the kids especially loved to find the word for their birthday. When it came time for me to pack my things for the summer, I always made it a point to tear off the months that we were on vacation. If I knew of a colleague with a summer birthday, they often found their birthday word taped to their door sometime in mid-June.

This went on for years, and I even photographed the words and texted them to friends who had moved on to other jobs, so it wasn't surprising that she asked. I no longer have a WOD calendar, though. When I retired, I passed it on to Treat for his English classroom, and I got him a new one at Christmas, just as my own used to be replaced at the holidays.

"I can't believe you don't have a word for me!" my friend replied when I explained the situation.

I was a little surprised by the strength of her reaction, but maybe I shouldn't have been. "Happy Birthday!" I texted another friend from school this morning.

"Thanks!" he answered. "What's my birthday word?"

Too Many Tiny Tomatoes

One of my weaknesses as a gardener is extreme resistance to pulling up perfectly healthy plants, even if they are crowding others. This aversion extends to volunteers, too. If I recognize a little sprout as a bean, squash, or tomato, I either try to transplant it or, more often, let it grow. How can I not admire the pluck of a plant that has taken root against the odds? 

My frequent co-gardener, Treat, sympathizes with my attitude. Still, he has an easier time, both pruning back plants (even when they have blossoms or fruit!) and discarding volunteers, all in pursuit of a healthier, more productive plant and garden. Earlier this season, he cast a kindly but skeptical eye on all the extra little tomato plants I was nurturing. "You know they're probably going to be tough little cherry tomatoes," he warned me. "Unless they are heirlooms. No hybrid ever re-seeds as itself."

Of course, he was right, and I have spent considerable time this summer harvesting those tiny tomatoes: painstakingly plucking those plucky little pearls one at a time. (Because, of course I can't just leave them there!) There has been a yield of over ten pounds, but I know I'll never get them all. Maybe next spring, when the ones I missed germinate and start to sprout, I'll have an easier time nipping them in the bud.

Appetizers

Some friends took us out last night to belatedly celebrate my birthday. They know I enjoy "experiences," and so they planned an evening of axe throwing and Ethiopian food. To start, they booked an hour and a half at the axe place, which included some light coaching. The instruction was pretty good, and I was pleased to stick my axe on the first try. It was literally hit or miss after that, but I felt good that I had considerably more hits than misses, including a few bullseyes. We rounded out our time competing in a version of twenty-one that our coach taught us. We played four games, and each of us won one, which was a perfect outcome for the group.

It's been years since I last had Ethiopian food. Back in the late 80s, when we first moved up here to Northern Virginia, the only place to get that cuisine was Adams Morgan, and we used to go down there every month or so. In fact, we once took my young cousin, Jennifer. She was 8 or 9 at the time, and we were childless twenty-somethings who enjoyed hanging out with a kid and doing fun things. 

On this particular occasion, I had to stop at an ATM because the place was cash-only. As we stood on the dark urban street surrounded by the usual collection of city denizens, she grabbed the money as it came out of the slot, waved it overhead, and skipped away shouting, "I'm rich! I'm rich!" Fortunately, we were able to corral her and recover the money without incident. It's hilarious in retrospect, but my heart was thumping as we made our way to the restaurant.

A little excitement is good for the appetite, though, and I enjoyed my meal then and relished it last night, too.

Not the Walk I Planned

I was feeling restless this afternoon, and since Heidi was feeling a bit drained after her first week back at school, I decided to take Lucy for a long walk on this beautiful day. Temperatures in the low 80s and a light breeze were ideal for our outing, but since it was pretty sunny and my companion wears a fur coat year-round, I put some ice in a water bottle and clipped a collapsible bowl to my fanny pack. 

Then I walked out of the house without the water, an oversight I did not realize until we were nearly to the dog park, which was the planned first stop on our route. I knew there was water there, and I was hopeful that if she hydrated well and we stuck to the shady side of the road, Lucy could make it the rest of the loop. But she is infamously persnickety when it comes to public water, and she refused to drink from the basin or fountain. She was happy when I filled her bowl, but when another dog ran over, shouldered her out of the way, and slobbered in there, she was done with that, too. 

I felt like I had no other choice but to revise my plan, and we turned toward home, although we did meander a bit. Our new path took us through a local shopping district, where we stopped at a drugstore that welcomed dogs. I grabbed a bottle of water to see us through the last part of our walk, and Lucy and I stood patiently in line for the self-checkout. 

There was only one customer ahead of us, a young woman with a baby. I was distracted as she juggled the child and her items, but turned back when I heard the register beep. She collected her coupons and a five-dollar bill from the cash slot, put the baby on her hip, took her bag, and left the store. 

When I stepped up to the monitor, the option to put my number in was not available, but I shrugged it off, considering it was only a two-dollar bottle of water. Then I noticed the screen was directing me to put all my items in the bagging area, even though I hadn't scanned anything yet. It took a minute, but I realized that there was an unpaid balance of 17+ dollars for a package of diapers on the register. 

"Excuse me," I said to an employee behind the counter. "I don't think the lady ahead of me paid for her stuff." 

"Are you saying she left without paying?" he asked angrily. 

Now there was a line of several people waiting behind me, and I rethought what I actually knew. "I'm saying there are items on this register that aren't mine," I shrugged. "I don't know how they got here, but all I have is this bottle of water." 

He shook his head, then scanned his card and entered a passcode to clear the order, but he was still upset. I paid for my water and left, feeling conflicted. I felt bad for the employee if he were held responsible, and I felt bad for the woman if she couldn't afford diapers. I also wondered if I should have just paid the tab myself and moved on.

But I didn't.

Cleanup Crew

As Lucy and I came around a bend in the trail, there was a couple stopped a few dozen yards ahead, pointing their cameras at something in the trees. Rather than spook whatever it was and risk ruining their photo op, we stopped where we were and waited. 

A putrid odor wafted on the breeze as we waited, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "Something dead is around here," I said to Lucy, as if she didn't have fifty times the olfactory sensors that I do and a bigger part of her brain dedicated to smell, too. 

Fortunately, our fellow walkers moved on, and so we did too. As we passed the spot where they had paused, I spotted an enormous turkey vulture sitting on the lowest branch, just a few feet over our heads. It all made sense to me.

The vulture started fussing when we got too close, fluffing its feathers, and shaking its wings. It fixed us with a look of suspicion, but I was having none of it. "Get to work!" I told it. "It's back there!"

BOY Jitters

Heidi's been understandably anxious about starting a new job at a new school, and I've done what I can to help. Her room is ready, custom posters made and printed, emails polished, and ideas bounced tirelessly around. We're even trading in the Honda for a Jeep since she has to drive herself to work and the commute is double her old one. 

I wanted her to feel prepared, because today was the open house for students all over the county. All of her kids, along with their parents, showed up to meet her and see what plans she has in store for the year ahead. Fortunately, they reassured her in ways I could not. "It's going to be fine," she told me when she got home.

"I know it is!" I agreed. "You always feel better when you meet the kids."

It's a Look

I bought my first pair of sunglasses when I was ten. We were visiting some friends who had moved from New Jersey (where we lived) to Huntington Beach, CA. Their house had a pool in the backyard and was just a mile from the beach, and I thought the blue lens aviator shades I got for two bucks at the Sav-on were a perfect look for that vibe.

Sadly, the first time I wore them to the beach, a wave washed them right off my face, and I never saw them again. I thought of those sunglasses a few years ago when aviators flew back in style, but by then I was committed to another retro model, Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Even so, when I saw Jamie Lee Curtis as a teen trapped in a grandma's body, ironically rocking aviator eyeglasses in Freakier Friday, I wondered if my reading glasses could use an update.

Heidi laughed when the three pairs I ordered were delivered yesterday, and scoffed when I offered her a pair. "But how do they look on me?"I asked, and she diplomatically told me that although she wouldn't choose them for me, they didn't look bad. 

If only they had blue lenses, I'm sure she'd love them!

Let’s Go Hachiko

Heidi had a first-week-back workshop at a community center a little less than a mile from our house, and when they informed the attendees that they would have to order lunch on their own to be delivered, she texted me. 

"I'll bring you lunch," I replied. "What time?"

So, a little after 11:30, Lucy and I set out on a walk and a quest to deliver Heidi's homemade lunch. We met her outside the center, grabbed a picnic table on the grounds, and visited as Heidi enjoyed her veggie wrap and watermelon cubes. When it was time for her to return, we walked around to the front entrance to see her inside. As Heidi disappeared through the heavy double doors, Lucy was rather alarmed, and when we turned to go? She put on the brakes. 

Unfortunately, no amount of reassurance could change her mind, and that stubborn dog clung to her conviction that we had left an essential member of our pack behind as I literally dragged her all the way home.

I won't make that mistake again!

Empty Nesters

Today was the first day back for teachers in our district, and so after Heidi headed off for work, I went out to do some errands. My first stop was a grocery store in a neighboring county where school for students actually started today, and I was surprised to see how crowded it was, especially since I've shopped there on Monday mornings at least once a month since I retired.

When I arrived, it was approaching lunchtime, and the cafe was packed. As I passed through, I noticed the clientele included many people who likely had school-aged kids. The aisles, too, were filled with young-ish people and couples shopping together, but no kids were in sight.

At the register, making small talk with the cashier, I noted how busy it seemed.

"Really busy for a Monday!" she agreed.

"And school started today!" I added.

"That's why," she told me. "They took the day off, dropped their kids at school, and came to get their groceries without having to worry about the kids."

It was a solid theory.

Bee Plus

There was a bee buzzing around in the plastic clamshell package of squash blossoms when I picked it up at the farmer's market this morning. Naturally, I opened the container and set it free. Then I decided to buy those blossoms, since they were the plumpest, which is why I picked them up in the first place. 

As I carried them to the line, I caught the eye of another shopper who had witnessed the whole episode. "I had to let it go!" I shrugged. "And these were the best ones."

"And you know they're pollinated," she laughed.

Small Fry Talk

"What's your favorite color?" he asked her as he floated on a kickboard in the shallow end. 

She stood on the pool deck, lean and tan in her pink bathing suit. "What's yours?" she challenged him.

"Blue," he replied.

Blue is my fourth favorite color," she told him, cooly.

Her brother ran over, a hooded Piccachu towel on his head. "I like black!" he shouted. "Black, black, black! I'm..." he turned dramatically flouncing his cape, "Blackman!"

Heidi raised her eyebrows. We were eavesdropping on the neighbor kids as we treaded in the deep water. "He probably shouldn't call himself that," she commented.

I agreed. "If Emily was here she might go tell him that black isn't a color," I added.

"Is yours pink?" the boy in the pool asked the girl on the side.

"No, it's red," she told him.

"Well, pink is red plus white," he said, "so I was close." He paused thoughtfully. "Did you know your favorite color is famous in China?"

She wasn't impressed.

"It is," he assured her, "Red and gold are famous in China." He fell off his board and went underwater. 

Conversation over.

Room 105

Even after she was offered the job, my friend wasn't sure she was ready to leave our old school after 32 years there as a teacher (and three more before that as a junior high student!). After a tough year, though, she thought a change might inject some new energy into her career, and Heidi was moving to the same school, too. Even so, up until the last week of school, she was still on the fence. 

Then she found out that her room number at the new school would be 105, which was the same as her first classroom at our school. We agreed it was a sign, and today I went over to help her unpack her boxes and set up the other room 105. While there, we were greeted by several former colleagues who had also transferred, including the principal, and a handful of very welcoming staff. 

My friend seemed visibly more relaxed than she has in a while, and I think she's going to have a great year!

Got it in One

I was sitting idly in my chair, looking for ways to kill time while the appliance repairmen worked on our fridge and dryer, when I decided to check out the online world geography challenge, Worldle, where players are challenged to identify the border map of a different country each day. In general, I'm not that accomplished at the game. Beyond the obvious ones, it usually takes me three or four guesses to narrow it down. And if it's a Pacific island? No way. So today, when presented with something that resembled a sea cucumber with a posse of amoebas, I surprised myself when I correctly recognized it as New Caledonia.

Later, I was trying to figure out how I knew that, and at first I considered an association to Little Caledonia, a tiny Scots-influenced gift shop in Georgetown that closed in 2002 after 50 years in business. They carried all sorts of pretty little knick-knacks and were always good for a last-minute Christmas or hostess gift. In 1988, in an article called "The Right Stuff and a Bit of the Wrong Stuff, Too," The Washington Post Magazine stated that "Walking into Little Caledonia is like entering Charles Dickens' Old Curiosity Shop."

But the map itself of New Caledonia looked so familiar to me that I felt it was more than just the name that jogged my memory. Then I remembered reading the novel Miss Benson's Beetle, the story of a teacher and amateur entomologist in post-WW II London who sets off to find the Golden Beetle of New Caledonia. It is a quirky tale, but one that had me studying the map of that French territory for a few days after I finished.

But how was a French territory named after Scotland, you may wonder. James Cook dubbed the island in 1774 because, to him, its landscape resembled the Scottish Highlands. The indigenous name of the island is Kanaky, however, from the Polynesian word "kanaka," meaning human. I like that better, but what are the chances of a shop named Little Kanaky ever opening in Georgetown?

All Hail the Tomatoes

Before we left for Maine, I visited the garden and picked all the ripe or nearly ripe tomatoes. Then I packed them carefully in pairs in small brown paper bags and brought them along for the vacation. A wide windowsill over the counter in the kitchen of our rental house was the perfect place for all 15 to continue ripening until we needed them. 

There was also an old-fashioned brass desk bell on the same sill, and in a bout of whimsy, as we were selecting tomatoes to slice for our sandwiches to carry on the first hike of the trip, I proclaimed that the bell had to be rung whenever a tomato was used. Most of our group was game for this silliness, and for the better part of the week, we dinged in celebration of each tomato.

Back at home, one of my first chores was to head up to the garden and check on it. It seems like we found the sweet spot of traveling this year. The weather down here was unseasonably cool and dry while we were gone, and there was not a single over-ripe tomato on the vine. There were more than 10 pounds of tomatoes ready to pick, though.

And if I could be in two places at once? I would ring that bell for each and every one.

Easy Peasy

I wasn't planning to stay. 

After picking up the rugs we ordered for Heidi's new classroom and helping to carry them in, I was going to go home, do a few things around the house, and pick Heidi up later. But when we got to the room, there was too much to unpack before putting the rugs down, and I wanted to see how they looked. I started organizing school supplies, going through bookshelves, putting games away, hanging pictures, and sorting extension cords and charging cables. Before we knew it, a few hours had gone by, and not only were the rugs in place, but the room was looking pretty good. 

Setting up a classroom in August? It's what we do.

Off the Beaten Track

We had just crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge and the traffic was getting gnarly when the map app flashed a message on the nav screen: Alternate route available: Would you like to save 9 minutes?

Would I ever! I felt my body relax as I took the exit marked "beaches" and left he prospect of traveling the last 120 miles of our trip home in the treacherous stop-and-go traffic of I-95 behind. Our new route was not without congestion in its first few miles, but once we crossed the fancy Roth Bridge over the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal and hopped onto 301 south, it was clear sailing. 

We rolled through blue skies and sunny farm fields on the bay side of the Eastern Shore, never stopping once until we approached the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Even then, we were mostly against traffic until we were nearly onto 395 south, but the express lanes rescued us, and we made it home 20 minutes quicker than the other way was predicted to take.

After 16 hours over two days in the car, the novelty of the new route, along with the open roads and pleasant beauty of that part of Delaware and Maryland, made the last leg more than bearable.

Tent Sale

"Oh look, they're having a tent sale," I said to Heidi, spying the huge white canopy set up on the side of the LL Bean outlet in Ellsworth. "Wanna stop?"

Even though (or maybe because) we were only 30 minutes into our 7-and-a-half-hour journey (the one that would ultimately end up taking closer to ten hours), we decided to make a quick detour and check out the inventory. It didn't hurt that dogs were also allowed in the store, and as we walked to the entry, I pointed to the tent. "Do you want to check out the tent sale first?" I asked.

"I don't want a tent," Heidi said, "but feel free."

I looked at her, confused. "They're not selling tents," I replied. "It's a big clearance sale in that tent." I pointed. Then I remembered where we were. "But I guess they might actually have a few tents," I laughed.

"I'll meet you inside."

The Eagle Has Landed

"Oh my gosh! Look at the size of that thing! Look at that white head! That's not a seagull."

Heidi and I were sitting in the sun on the granite blocks above the ocean at Wonderland Beach when we turned to see what the guy on the next ledge over was talking about.

"That's an eagle!" he proclaimed excitedly. "Like, real America, America! Holy cow, it's close!" 

Three teenage girls gathered around him. "Where? Where?" they clamored.

"It's right there in the tree," he pointed.

I turned around. There was a large stand of pines behind us. I stood up and craned my neck to see where he was pointing, but I couldn't see an eagle.

"I don't see it!" one of the girls said again.

"It's in the tree!" he repeated.

"I see it!" one of the girls pointed.

A woman standing by waved at me. "Do you want to come look?"

I stepped over to their rock and peered into the tree tops. "There are a lot of trees over there," I said sympathetically to the two girls who were getting frustrated. I scanned the woods again and saw the eagle at the top of a spruce behind a couple of other trees. 

As I pulled my phone out to snap a couple of pics, I heard the second girl exclaim, "I see it!"

"I still don't!" whined the last girl, and the guy took her by the shoulders and turned her body, lining her up with a clear view of the eagle. 

He took her arm and pointed it right at the bird. "See it now?"

"No!" she said.

He shook his head and stepped back. The other girls jumped in to help. "See those two trees? See the dead tree behind them? See the tree to the right of that? Look at the top! See it?"

"No," she sighed.

"Hey! There's an eagle right up in that tree!" The original spotter hailed a group of hikers just stepping onto the beach from the trail. "Look!" They joined us on the ledge and turned to look up at the eagle who looked back at us, surveying the scene below.

By then, I had several pictures, and Heidi and I turned to go. "I see it!" the last girl cried.

"Yay!" Everyone on the rock cheered.

"It's so awesome!" she marveled, and we couldn't disagree.

Sea Dog

Besides a fawn and a few wild turkeys earlier in the week (and of course the mouse), we haven't spotted much wildlife on our amazing vacation up here in Maine. Even the starfish we were promised when we walked down to the causeway were not in evidence, but on that day, there was something better. 

As the dogs swam in Norwood Cove, there was a sudden flurry of fish jumping out of the water near the sluice, and then a seal leapt out of the water and did a little spin before splashing back in. We followed his movement by the ripples of fish trying to escape being eaten, and then, we saw just two eyes and a smooth gray head poking above the water. It turns out he was following the movement of our dogs as they paddled around the shallows after a stick. 

Who knows if he saw them as kith or kin or foe; he did not approach, even as he kept his eyes periscopically fixed on them. But the tide was retreating, and with it the fish, so he plunged below the surface, did a little flip, and swam out to sea.

It Could Have Been Otherwise

My whole vacation flashed before my eyes as I crumpled to the ground. After all the hiking and scrambling I've done in the last 4 days, it was an uneven sidewalk in town that knocked me down. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going and stepped into a little divot, rolled my ankle, and ended up sprawled in someone's front yard. 

My ankle was a bit tender when I stood, and the awareness that we were all two miles from home gave me pause. But as I continued walking, I could feel the ankle loosening up, and I knew there was a drugstore just a couple of blocks away where I could buy an NSAID and maybe even a compression brace. Plus? I was starving! So I knew it couldn't be too bad.

Less than an hour later, we were on our way back to the house, and my ankle was only a little sore. And after that little five-mile jaunt, Heidi and Lucy and I met our friend Ruth and did another couple of miles on an amazing trail along the cliffs at the southern end of the island. My hiking days aren't over yet. 🤞🏻

The Wild Mouse

I asked for a nature camera for my birthday, and my brother and sister-in-law generously obliged. My thought was to put it on one of the little deer paths in the woods near our house, and I was excited to set it up. First I needed batteries and a memory card, though, so that set me back a few days. Then we went to Buffalo for a week, but when we returned, I eagerly re-read the user manual, installed everything, and practically skipped over to the woods to strap my camera to a tree.

The next morning I went to fetch the memory card, certain that I had captured images of all sorts of wildlife, but there were only two videos: me turning it on and me collecting the memory card. Disappointed, but undaunted, I watched a couple of online videos that provided some helpful pointers and returned to the woods to relocate and reset the camera. This time, I waited two days to give all the fauna a chance to go by, but when I checked the memory card? Nothing!

Next, I set it up on my deck within sight of my neighbor's bird feeder, but again, there were no images to see. I was pretty sure it was user-error, especially since it always captured me at either end of the set-up, so I decided to bring the camera to Maine in hopes that my nephews, brother, and sister-in-law might have some suggestions. I was also pretty sure that the woods surrounding our vacation rental would have many denizens to record.

On the first night, just to make sure we got something, we baited the trail with a lobster body. When I checked the card the next morning, even though the lobster hadn't been touched, I was excited to see several media files. Unfortunately, they were all me and Treat placing the camera, me dropping the lobster body, Jasmine and Emily walking by, me finding the lobster body, and me collecting the card.

I tried again in another spot farther from the house the next night, with no bait. This morning, I got the card, and there were actual images from the evening and the middle of the night that weren't me! Three were a very business-like squirrel who seemed to be scouting the area, and one was a little mouse zig-zagging across the trail, presumably to avoid predators. 

It's a start! Plus, the mouse is cute. See for yourself:

Nothing Better

When I told my friend Ruth, who has a summer house up here on the island and has literally spent every summer of her life here, about the lack of blueberries at the Carroll Homestead, she was sympathetic and offered to take all of us picking at a spot she knew. "It's part of the Land and Garden Preserve," she said, "so dogs can be off-leash after 4. There are also some places where they can swim." 

Blueberry picking, hiking with the dogs off-leash, and a chance for them to swim were a trifecta of activities for our group, and we eagerly agreed to meet her at the carriage road parking lot near Little Long Pond this afternoon. After a short hike through the woods, the trail dropped down to the pond and followed the shore north. We stopped at a newly-constructed beach with a bench where dogs were welcome to swim. The field sloping down toward the lake from the forest above was covered in low-bush blueberries and tiny roses. 

While Rosie and Jasmine swam, Lucy ran from the shore to the fields, checking in with those of us who were sitting in the fragrant shrubs, picking berries and chatting. A cool breeze blew across the pond, and we could hear laughter from people who were swimming at the former Rockefeller boathouse on the opposite shore. A loon called from down the pond, and Ruth and I bantered about which mountains we could see from where we were. (They were Cadillac, the Bubbles, Penobscot, and a wee bit of Sargent behind it.)

In less than an hour, we had a few pints of berries, and the dogs were tired, so we packed up and headed back up the hill to the trail through the woods. It was another nearly perfect afternoon in Maine.

Not Exactly as Advertised

In my mind, Carroll Homestead, a preserved coastal Maine farm dating from 1823, which is a part of Acadia National Park, is an empty clapboard structure surrounded by wild blueberries. At least that's what it was in 2010 when our friends John and Ruth took us picking there. 

So you can imagine my excitement when I realized the site was an easy walk through the woods from our vacation rental, and also understand why this morning Lucy and I hiked over there even before I had my first cup of coffee. We turned back, though, as soon as I got a glimpse of the place from the granite ledge surrounded by a springy cushion of sphagnum moss. 

Then, after coffee and breakfast, and armed with collection containers, our whole group made the two-minute trek to the farm. The place was delightful, more restored than before and replete with informative signage, but the blueberries were mostly gone, mown over to make it look more like it had in the mid-1800s. 

But there was a trace of a trail in the woods toward the back of the property that hinted it might join the St. Sauveur-Valley Cove route not too far up the hill. We walked a little way, just to see where it led, and soon we were on a lichen-covered ledge with what might have been a cairn. I was eager to press on, hoping to gain the other trail and continue on it, extending our adventure. But we didn't have any water, and this was not the agreed-upon activity when we left the house, plus we were technically off-trail in a national park. What to do?

We decided to split up; some of our group headed home, and some pushed forward. We let the dogs choose, and they opted to go home. 

Of course, I went with the group that headed into the unknown, and a little bushwhacking and 250 vertical feet later, we found that blue blaze that validated our route. It wasn't too far to the summit of Valley Peak, and then we headed down the trail, taking in the vistas of Somes Sound and Southwest Harbor until we dropped back into the treeline, continuing on until we reached the fireroad, and walked back home.

It was an amazing adventure! And? We are having lobster for dinner tonight.

Tracey's Choice

I come to Maine for two main things: the hiking and the lobster. Usually? It's the latter that's a given-- we have some form of lobster every night. The hiking can be a little trickier, since it's dependent on the weather, the traffic, the group vibe, one's physical condition, and so on. 

This year, our house, although it doesn't offer the water view or water access we covet in a vacation rental, has something we've never enjoyed before: a path that leads directly to Acadia National Park. And when we arrived a little after 4 P.M., that was the amenity I was most eager to try out. The longer August days up here at the 44th parallel gave us until 8, so after unpacking the cars and stocking the fridge, we leashed up the dogs and headed over Carroll Hill and down to Fernald Point. There we picked up the Flying Mountain Trail and made quick work of its 294-foot elevation. Then it was down to Valley Cove Beach, out the fire road, and back up the hill to our cottage. 

When we arrived home just before 8, Bill was cooking pasta and making salad, and we all agreed that our earlier plan of going out for a lobster dinner might be better revised. Ever hopeful, I jumped in the car and dashed out to see if I might grab a couple of lobsters to add to our already delicious meal. Unfortunately, Sunday night did me no favors-- the lobster shack down the road was closed, and so was the nearby grocery. When I pulled into the lobster pound in town, the line was fifty or more with a wait of up to an hour, and lobsters selling for 18.99 a pound. 

Oh, I waited around for a while to see if the line was moving faster than reported, but in the end, I gave up and went home. "Don't worry," Emily said when I reported the bad news, "we can have lobster twice one day!"

I laughed at the consolation and realized that when forced to choose between the two? I'd take the hike every time.

What the Heck!

A box of the famous Dubai Chocolate bars was right next to the register as I paid for my water at the James Fennimore Cooper rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike. I was vaguely aware of the viral sensation that swept TikTok last year, and I knew the milk chocolate bars filled with pistachio cream and crispy bits of phyllo had been scarce for a while and were still expensive. 

Indeed, these particular bars weighed about 8 ounces and cost 20 bucks. I hesitated a moment, but then my vacation brain took over. Why not? I thought. It'll be fun to try with the family! I added the candy to my pile of merchandise. 

And when I did, the young clerk's eyebrows shot into his hairline. "Those are twenty dollars!" he sputtered.

"I know," I laughed, a little embarrassed. "I saw the price tag." I pointed to the box.

"Oof," he sighed in some relief. "I didn't know that was there."

I wondered how many times he had been taken to task by shocked customers, and I smiled and shrugged. "I'm on vacation!"

All Spice

I was walking back from the garden when a car pulled up alongside me. When the driver lowered the window to hail me, I saw it was a friend and former colleague. He was driving to dinner with his two young daughters in the backseat, and although the older was friendly when I said hello, the two-year-old turned her head purposefully away from me.

"Is it stranger danger?" I asked playfully, and when she turned back, I saw a little smirk on her face. 

"No!" she said and hid her face again.

"You should really talk to me," I told her. "I'm very funny and I love kids!"

"No!" she said again.

"I'll talk to you," her sister offered. 

Great!" I agreed. "Have you been having a fun summer?'

"Tell her about the beach," their dad suggested.

"We made mermaid tails and went to Funland," she told me. "But the Haunted House was closed," she sighed.

"What was the best thing at Funland?" I asked.

"The swings and the bumper cars," she answered, as her sister listened suspiciously.

"Did you crash a lot?" I laughed. "Because that's the only time you're allowed to crash in a car, y'know."

Her sister's eyes were on me. "My car was pink!" she said.

"Uh oh, you talked to me," I teased her.

"You didn't even have a car," her sister corrected her. "You're too little!"

"Not to be a mermaid," the younger girl scoffed.

"Did you know we're expecting another one in December?" their dad interjected. "She's got the middle child vibe on lock already, doesn't she?