A Taste of Maine

From here, in the dining room of my parent’s second home on the coast of Maine, we can look out toward France. But which end of the horizon should I be gazing at? I don’t know my latitudes well enough to be sure. The horizon is vague this morning, a blurred line of fog and gray sea not far off shore.

We drove up last night in a rented Altima and are now waiting for Mom and Dad to arrive in the Volvo wagon with Mary, their Welsh terrier, and a cargo of plants which my mother potted in Cambridge for the cottage. I had lobster salad for breakfast, with orange juice and a chocolate cookie. My heart leapt to find an unopened bag of Green Mountain light roast coffee, ready to fuel my writing time before Darlene woke up. I smoked my weekly Malboro out under the roof of the front porch, watching the rain make circles on the worn wood, listening to Michel Leeb in my ear buds singing songs of Paris.

This taste of Maine makes me glad we will return here for the month of August, living next door in the Hooper Cottage, part of the family compound. Fifi is at the other end of the dining room table, writing her second entry for the blog. Léonard is feeling vague, savoring images of France as they give way to beach grass, a lifeguard’s stand. and the play of light from windows and an old lamp.

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