Trips to Maine always proceeded the same. After the first
six or seven hours, we’d cross into our favorite state, over the Piscataqua
Bridge, and shout in unison “Welcome to Maine, The Way Life Should Be!” Then we’d
snuggle back down into our pillows and leave the driving to my father since it
would be another two hours before we’d get to my grandparents. Next thing we knew, we’d be turning down their sandy, pine-lined road, rubbing sleepy eyes
and sporting sleep-tousled hair-dos. We’d excitedly point to the first
landmark, my Uncle Scott’s home, craning our necks to see if the cousins were
in the yard. A few more turns around the bend and Uncle Gordon and Aunt Ruthie’s
home appeared on the left, a square brick structure with a red tin roof,
numerous barns in the background and a large bell out front. But we had eyes
only for the right-hand side, where we caught brief glimpses of a path to a
large rock, and then a tall barn and then a small, dormered colonial with a
black-shingled roof. The white house and bright red barn would flash through
the sparse forest of white pine until the trees cleared and we were suddenly
there. Turning into the driveway created a state of happy havoc in the car, my
sister and I bouncing up and down in our seats, ready to pile out and breathe
in the scent of Maine.
