While the Son and I pounded out two ten-hour days of camp repairs and revelatory renovations, we had to eat.
The kitchen has not been restocked, and the salt in the stovetop shakers has solidified to a level that can only be compared to the final iteration of Lot’s wife in the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.
There was bread in the fridge with a final destination date of September 2025, but my kid brought fresh rolls for sandwiches. My job was to bring the meat and cheese, a squeeze bottle of mustard, and Duke’s mayonnaise. Yeah, we tried it. Mostly because all my southern readers have asked me to do so.
It was good. I enjoyed it.
I digress.
We went out to breakfast at Tom’s, as the eggs in the fridge had spent a winter trying to hatch. They did not. Please don’t explain to me why they did not. I only wrote that as a continuation of using hyperbole to build some immunity for a small percentage of my readers who need some levity in their lives, but sometimes it doesn’t take. Relax.
My kid had not had the pancakes at Tom’s. I heard him order, but kept my mouth shut. When they arrived, he only said “Wow.”
That was the vocal introduction for Ellie to get one of the cakes when I got home late last night. Ellie stayed home for a couple of days to be with the Significant One. Ellie is the chief security officer when I am away. She’s grouchy and barks at the slightest hint of danger— even when there is no danger, honestly.
Good thing she didn’t see the signage recently placed on the blueberry barrens all around Washington County, near the beehives. We’ve yet to find where they put the “safety bees.”
In all seriousness, our server at Tom’s put the pancake leftovers in a pizza box, and the lid struggled to keep them in.
The two-day marathon was successful, culminating in a celebratory dinner at Helen’s Restaurant of Machias, last night before we drove home in opposite directions. He drove north, and I drove west.
I will be writing Helen’s Restaurant of Machias their own episode of this trip, because I finally had my first eclair of the year. To quote Jackie Chiles from Seinfeld in the last episode, “They are spectacular.” IYKYK.
I double-digress.
I’ve embraced driving toward home from Washington County, Maine, in the early evening for years. It gives me a pleasant last few hours at camp and allows me multiple vantage points to view sundown (shout-out to Gordon Lightfoot).
The drive out of our camp road, being brought back into shape by my neighbor Bill and his magical truck-mounted rock rake, was smooth and pothole-free.
He hits the road multiple times in the spring, and we’ve just had it graded by a big rig. We have it done about every other year. Bill then rakes the road to smooth it, and aims to hit it right after the rain. He claims it’s the secret to a long-lasting, rain-repelling road surface. I am inclined to believe him; he’s been doing it for the majority of his eighty-plus years.
We had late-day showers, and that was his cue. I took a photo of his handiwork bathed in the late afternoon light that I so delight in.
Some won’t find it attractive, but I see the promise of another summer in the Maine woods ahead.
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My gratitude cannot be explained in words alone, but that’s the medium I work with.
Thank you.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC