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?

For Want of a Cup of Coffee

In general, I appreciate the compact nature of our home. Sure, storage is at a premium, but we have come up with some clever workarounds in the decades we have lived here. Even so, this morning my patience was definitely tried.

The inciting event was completely my fault. I stepped into the kitchen to make some sourdough pastry and thought I'd make myself a second cup of coffee first. Fetching the jar from the cupboard, I unscrewed the lid, and when I reached for the scoop, I swept the entire jar off the counter and onto the floor. Fortunately, it hit the mat and the glass didn't break. Unfortunately, all the beans scattered across the floor.

I went to the closet to get the broom and dustpan, but I had to move the leaf-blower out of the way. Then I had to drag the mats from the kitchen into the dining room to sweep. I couldn't get all the beans from the corners, and the tile could use a good mopping, so I went back into the closet and moved the dog food bin aside to get the vacuum and Swiffer. 

As I was mopping, I knocked the shoe moulding from the base of one of the cabinets, and the bottom kick plate came loose as well. Both had been attached with a nail gun, and the brads were bent, so reusing them was out of the question; however, I did retrieve a hammer from the tool drawer to try. Next, I went through the hardware tin to see if there was anything I could use instead, but as I struggled on my knees, I discovered that the best nail I could find was a little too big to hammer in because of the tight space it was in, between the stove and the refrigerator.

I decided to try the electric staple gun instead, thinking that perhaps the longest of the staples would go through the plate. But I couldn't find either a cheater or an extension cord that would take a three-prong appliance. Having emptied the tool drawer and placed its contents all over the dining room table, I went to look under the bathroom sink. There, I removed all sorts of cleaning supplies, first aid supplies, extra tissue boxes, paper towels, and toilet paper, as well as clean hand towels, a steam cleaner, and some spray paint, before finding the cheater I knew was in there, somewhere.

Back in the kitchen, the staple gun, finally plugged in, turned out not to be the right tool for the job after all, so I searched the picture-hanging hardware assortment and selected two brass nails. After a bit of cussing and banging, the kick plate was back in place with the shoe moulding wedged firmly beneath it. I wound up the extension cord and put away the staple gun (with the cheater in place) and went into the dining room to put away all the tools in their drawer. Then it was back into the bathroom to reorganize the assortment on the floor into the cabinet below the sink.

I still need to put the broom, vacuum, and Swiffer back into the closet and replace the dog food, and I never did get that coffee, let alone make the pastry dough.

Hard Truths

A neighbor jumped into the pool as we were treading and talking this afternoon. She ignored us and found her own space nearby to swim back and forth the short way, a choice I totally got and respected. As she swam, though, she made little noises, somewhere between a hum and a grunt, that were quiet but audible to us. We were still in the pool when she finished her workout and departed the pool, and as she walked into the locker room, I made a snarky remark to Heidi about the noises. 

Before she could reply, I laughed and apologized. "That was super unkind of me," I shook my head. "I don't know why I said that."

"Well," Heidi replied, "it was unexpected and noticeable."

I shrugged. "So what, though?" 

"You didn't say anything mean to her," Heidi pointed out, and I agreed.

As we floated, I thought of a friend and former colleague who quite often used to inform me that I was making little noises when we ate together at lunch. I knew her well enough to apologize, confess I was lost in my own thoughts, and then give her a little grief right back. "But if your goal was to make me uncomfortable? You succeeded!"

She usually rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I thought you would want to know!"

Did I, though?

Situational Awareness

There was an itchy spot on my shin when I sat down to meditate this morning, and I scratched it in surprise. Upon examination, the tiny crescent of blisters and its tiny adjoining constellation of the same revealed themselves to be poison ivy, which was hardly surprising since I have been tramping in and out of the woods across the way every day to check my wildlife camera.

In general, I'm fortunate not to be affected by many of life's dermatological irritants. I don't know if mosquitoes avoid me, or if I don't have a reaction to their bites, or a combination of both, but I can live my life repellent-free without consequence. The same usually goes for poisonous plants, although I am careful to avoid them.

But, I have noticed that the older I get? The more accident-prone I seem to be. Six decades on, my unconscious doesn't seem quite as sharp as perhaps it once was, and so I must be more consciously mindful. 

I guess it's a good thing I started my day with meditation!