Rockland

August 13

Last night it rained torrents. This morning I feel compelled to try hard to erase the evidence, mopping up the standing water on both side porches—a fool’s errand. Puddles are everywhere in and on everything. The weather is damp and cold. I have little hope of things drying out anytime before next year. I am reminded of weeks spent on our sailboat in Port A, where the summers are hot and humid, and nothing ever dries.

With more rain forecast for this afternoon, we decided it would be a good museum day, and the Farnsworth in Rockland is on my list. Who wouldn’t love to spend the afternoon in the company of Andrew Wyeth’s earth-toned genius?

As we leave Searsport behind, I realize how much I love this place. The cottage. Searsport. Maine. Even in the damp. The rain. Even in the cold. I wish that I had thirty summers before me to return again and again and inhale and explore and just be. But carpe diem whispers its call, and I vow to seize the here, appreciate the now.

Northport, Maine

Michael asks if I mind if he makes a detour—we have nothing but time. And so we turn off Route 1 looking for the edge of the sea. We find it in Northport. The end of the road rewards us with a miniature version of San Francisco’s Alamo Square, a row of tiny colorful peaked roof cottages trimmed with gingerbread, graced with flowers, sporting flags, and fronting a large sloping field of green that reaches down to the bay. To say it is delightful is saying too little; a lovely surprise—a gift? Serendipitous. I want to sit in the middle of that green open space on a sunny day with a bottle of wine, good cheese, a loaf of bread, and absorb the surroundings into my pores; but the day is not sunny, there is no wine, and we travel on.

In Rockland, thirty-three miles, and fifty minutes south of Searsport, the sun shines. Parking is a challenge, but we persevere. I tell Mike that Heather and I read about a restaurant, The Pearl, owned by a previous Next Food Network Star finalist (if anyone could be less impressed by this information I would like them to come forward now) and that I think we should try it. Well, we do try to try it. Arriving at the dock where it is situated, we find that it is only open for lunch on weekends. Chalk up one for Michael.

We find a tiny shaded lobster shack on a side street that appears to be popular. Rule one—go where the people are. Rule two—think about it. Sunny day. Shaded table. OOS on the first two things I order. I settle for a crab roll (not a bad thing to settle for), and they feel so badly that they didn’t have the items I wanted, I get a significant discount on my lunch.

Michael’s week.

Michael’s happy.

The Farnsworth Homestead

The Farnsworth is next on our agenda, and to that end, we hold two tickets to the museum in our hands. Looking at them closely, I notice that the two tickets give us admission to three different attractions: the Farnsworth, the Olson House, and the Farnsworth Homestead, which will close soon. We need to see it immediately before we tour the museum. It seems we are going to have to squeeze Andrew and his paintings into the last hour before the museum closes.

Lucy Farnsworth was smart and business savvy, and I’m glad we are making time for the tour. Although her brother got the lion’s share of her father’s wealth, she took her $250,000 inheritance, turning it into 1.5 million dollars by the time she died in 1939 ($26,087,574.63 in today’s money). Lucy used her money to create a museum in honor of her father, one of the titans of Rockland during his lifetime.

The homestead is a time capsule of her life, not changing since her death—part of the stipulation in her will. The guide is one of the best I have ever listened to, and the only pictures I take are of floors and walls.

Main Sport Outfitters

On the way into Camden for a half-price happy hour at the Whitehall Inn, we stop off at Main Sport Outfitters. During a moment of adventurous aberration, we signed up for a fall foliage windjammer cruise; not finding out till after we signed on the dotted line, that it would most likely be 50 degrees on the water. Mike is extremely excited about the impending adventure at the end of September. Me? Me, I just don’t want to be cold.

The building in front of me hopefully holds the cure. I try on a fleece-lined cable-knit wool sweater, feeling and looking like the abominable snowman. A sales clerk offers to assist me. The Patagonia black quilted jacket feels thin. It does not seem warm, but I am assured that new technology is amazing. I add a snug-fitting fleece top (Heather told me I need snug) a sweater, thick socks, and a long scarf to wrap around my neck. $500 later (between Michael and me), the saleslady tells me I am off to a good start.

To make me feel better, she says, “And you can wear the clothes in Texas too.”

“And if I do get cold I am going to come back and haunt you,” I reply, thinking of the thin black jacket.

Before proceeding to happy hour in Camden, we make one more stop. We want to see if the American Eagle, the old windjammer that promises a September adventure, is in port.