The Goose Gets Gray; Maine Plays Misty for Me

Okay, it was long overdue, a gray foggy day. This is Maine, after all, and we had six continuous days of sunshine which is unusual to say the least. Secretly, we all wanted a day like this. So we got it. I started the morning playing tennis with a woman I met at the round robin on Wednesday.  During the middle of a point she stopped the game because a caterpillar was crossing the court. She got a leaf, carefully wrapped up the caterpillar and took it to a grassy area, saying: "I want you to turn into a butterfly."  This is all you need to know about this woman. Talk about random acts of kindness.  We are friends now.

We went to the Wells National Estuarine Research Reserve for a couple of trail walks, one to the densely foggy ocean, one through the ferns and marshes and birches and maples. The main feature of the outing was a density of mosquitoes so thick we had to run back to the car for Deet and cover ourselves in poison just to save our hides.

We drove around, the boys did some candle pin bowling, we went to a bookstore, we stopped for lunch at a place where the sign advertised the best lobster rolls in Maine and were told by a crusty old lobster man that they weren't making lobster rolls today.

We made up for it at dinner where the boys bibbed up for the final crustacean crescendo.

Tomorrow...back to crabby old Maryland.

Eating reds and blues...in my coffee too

On the menu: lobster, lobster and more lobster

We spent our last night with Joe at Nunan's Lobster Hut in Cape Porpoise where the menu consists of one small lobster; two small lobsters; one large lobster; two large lobsters; lobster stew and lobster salad. Decor-lobster buoys up above; lobster bibs down below. I bibbed up for the twin special, which strictly prohibits sharing but we dodged the lob cop and I slipped a couple of claws to the boys.  

The next morning after some blueberry coffee, which is only palatable in Maine, we bid adieu to our Traipser only to see him return when he realized that he forgot his laptop. Despite his concerns about guests and fish, we insisted he stay a third night; we were having fish anyway.

We have exhausted the house supply of watchable DVD’s-Our Man Flint, which Darr said would explain Austin Powers and Rainman which I said would explain "I am an excellent driver."

We located the local tomatoes leading to a conversation in which we said they just need a little salt and “that’s all,” which we realized is “that sal” in French and Spanish.  

Yesterday we went to the Rachel Carson’s National Wildlife Preserve where we had to explain to the boys that Rachel is largely responsible for the environmental movement of today. Too bad she died in 1964 and never got to see Al Gore’s movie.  We found a driving range where Franky could practice his driving without a permit.  

These tide charts are amazing, and much more reliable than bus schedules. We got up today for the morning low tide-10:18 a.m. achievable even in a house of big sleepers. The shape of the beach completely changes at low tide and allows you to walk to what appear to be distant land masses during high tide.

Today I was wearing my “I am not a tourist. I live here” t-shirt on the beach which made people smile. If only they had seen the back they would have realized it is a promotion for Washingtonian magazine. But as my mother once wisely told me: "They can’t see you coming and going, dear.”

Off to the Ladies Round Robin to play my favorite sport with women who I imagine will be in good spirits if not good sports.

The glory of Goose Rocks Beach

Visiting dignitary



Joe Rhodes and his Traipsmobile (in Bethesda)

Quite unexpectedly, we have been joined by our dear friend Joe Rhodes whom we met in Tucson when he was a writer for the Arizona Daily Star for just one year, 1979-1980. We then bonded for life. Joe is a brilliant writer and hilarious human being and for the past two years has been on an odyssey traveling the country in a tricked-out former TV news van which now serves as his home complete with satellite dish, fridge and all of the amenities of home. In fact it is his home. And in it he follows the sun, or rather the lack of sun in the summer and the presence of sun in the winter, to be in optimally pleasing climes year round. That is why it is no coincidence that he finds himself in Maine in August; and came here from Newfoundland, which he says is basically Ireland, full of highly extroverted party-hearty fishermen. He says it is the first time he had to sneak out of a bar because so many people wanted to buy him a drink. Check out his blog Traipsathon. Joe keeps everyone updated on his whereabouts through Twitter and Facebook and if he finds himself in a place where friends live, he is likely to drop in, park the Traipsmobile in your driveway, perhaps do a load of laundry, sleep in a "real bed" and then move on. This is our third visit by the Traipsmobile. He sustains this existence by filing entertainment stories for The New York Times. Speaking of entertainment, Joe has a quite personal connection to the movie Bernie--the story of the meanest woman in Carthage, Texas who was shot dead by her mortician boyfriend and stored in a freezer. That woman, played by Shirley McLaine, was Joe's aunt. Really. Read his NYT Story How My Aunt Marge Ended Up in the Deep Freeze.

Meanwhile we set achievable vacation goals for the day--mine was to do a morning run and then go the beach. Darr's was to find a fresh produce stand. Peter and Franky's were to sleep late, go to the beach and then go on a family-fun-filled trip to Walmart. Going to Walmart is something we would  never do at home, so these trips are strictly associated with mirth and girth.

Native Fruits!

...from this fine establishment

Goose Rocks Beach, Maine

The view from my desk

Goose Rocks Beach really does not want you to know that it is here. There are no neon signs indicating its presence from the highway (Route 9). There are a few wooden signs in the shape of arrows with various commercial enterprises on the main road leading into the community, but it is easy to miss, as evidenced by my attempt to find it a couple of weeks ago on the Thelma and Louise trip. We blew right by it.  GRB has a Kennebunkport mailing address, but all they really share is a zip code.  Goose Rocks Beach has a small town sweetness,  hundreds of summer cottages, all tightly packed on quiet, bike filled streets. The toddlers can ride their trikes and the teens their bikes. And ringed by the prize, a three mile stretch of soft sandy beach featuring your friend and mine, the Atlantic Ocean.  The beach is lined with a variety of ocean front manses from ostentatious new builds to old cottages and behind them the houses that have grown vertically to get a view of the blue. That's where I am...on the third floor of a year-round residence rental (as opposed to a cottage) looking out a porthole window at the sea. "Sixty yards from the beach," as advertised.

During one of my stays in nearby Biddeford Pool I discovered the Goose Rocks Beach Community Center, which has four lovely tennis courts and an active group of players. It is run by an old former high school coach named Mike, whom everyone calls Coach. He was still there, even though we have been away for the past two summers, he pretended to remember me. Maybe he did. So did the tennis captain. There is a lot of continuity here, families who own houses and have been coming their entire lives, and many repeat renters, the kind who sign the lease for next summer the day they check out.

I started my day with the Tennis Round Robin which I know the GRBC hosts every Sunday at 9 a.m. And as the haze turned to sunshine, I hit the beach. There was a breeze coming off the ocean, there were kids throwing seaweed, playing paddle ball, building sand castles. All of the things you are supposed to see at the beach. They don't call it a day at the beach for nothing. I feel restored and refreshed and reminded of my childhood summers in Maine, when I used to sleep until noon and then spend the afternoon on the beach reading and writing.

This made us fforget the 11 hour drive

We are not going to discuss the eleven hour drive here because it all forgotten now. But we are going to discuss what our second stop was, after getting the keys from the realtor--O'Reilly's Lobster Coop. Much like Goose Rocks Beach, Mr. O'Reilly doesn't really want you to know he is there, and once you arrive, he will amble into the pound when he is good and ready while the customers look longingly at the crustaceans fated to die for their enjoyment. One year Frank and Jane Beiser visited and tried to photograph Mr. O'Reilly and his establishment and he didn't allow it. But Peter snuck in this one:

O'Reilly's: What else matters?