Arriving in Searsport

August 2, 2014 — It was sad to leave Monhegan, but adventure awaits and we slide into Searsport at 4:30 p.m. amid a trickle of sunlight.

Leaving Hwy 1, we turn down a side street and inch our way along the shore road.  I have traveled this path on Google Earth and know what to look for. Finally I see our summer cottage up a green velvet slope fronted by a row of glorious flowers, the Searsport Harbor to our back.  It is beautiful; another summer idyll. Could I have possibly lucked out again?  If in my dreams I could draw a perfect stereotypical summer cottage for us to live in this would be it. A wide front porch with Adirondack chairs, two screened-in porches, painted floors, painted wooden walls, no insulation, a multitude of windows letting in the ocean breeze, long sloping lawn to the sea, flowers in abundance. I am so excited I almost pop.

 

Settling-in

I am even more excited to be in one single place for an entire month.  I feel I can take a deep breath and relax.  By the time I unpack and settle-in, Heather, Kevin and Owen arrive.  They took the red-eye into Boston from Los Angeles on Wednesday night, rented a car this morning and drove up Highway 1 to be with us for the next twelve days.  I honestly never really thought they would get here — 3,000 miles, two boys under twelve, no sleep, the logistics, the expense. But here they are.

After a really great (and rowdy) dinner at a small pub in downtown Searsport, we stop at a local market to buy breakfast things.  Heather adds a small football and a very large Frisbee for the boys to her half of the cart, believing they need a reason to be on that beautiful wide green lawn.  At the check-out counter Heather’s half of the cart is filled with eggs, bread, cereal, fruit—things necessary. Well, there is also a freshly made gigantic Whoppie Pie. My side of the basket has two bottles of wine, and an Entenmann’s Coffee Cake.

Pigging Out

After a relaxing morning, Papa (Michael) sends us off to do some grocery shopping while he offers to take the boys to lunch. Later we learn they dined at the local Dairy Queen and Owen having chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce for dessert—which sounds terrible to all of us, including Kevin.

Dinner is done and we sit around the oil cloth clad table in our screened-in porch sipping wine. Before I know what is happening Michael and I are recruited to play Pass the Pigs. Tossing the pigs.  Rolling the pigs. Throwing the pigs. Then you passing the pigs. I am a bit skeptical and my head is dizzy with the endless scoring opportunities. Siders. Razorbacks. Trotters. Snouters. Leaning Jowlers.  There are Mixed Combos, Making Bacon and Pig Outs. Pigging Out and Making Bacon are the worst thing that can happen. Michael and I seem stuck on these two.  Owen is into the game and keeps score for everyone.  Kevin and Papa humor us, pretending to have fun.

I Pig Out more than anyone.

I have a feeling — just a feeling — that the next twelve days will be nothing like the last.

One way of Making Bacon – your score goes to zero.