There’s something about Maine. I don’t know as I’d say it feels like coming home, but when we get up to Mid-coast and beyond, it feels like an invitation, like it would embrace us, like we could live here and enjoy it and thrive. It’s good to be back in the neck of the woods where I can wear my Red Sox hat proudly, not defiantly.
When we’re driving north on U.S. 1 and we catch the first glimpse of marine marshlands and evidence of tidal activity, I get excited. It means the ocean isn’t that far away, and neither are the ambience, the weathered cedar-sided homes and the genuine seafood platters and crabmeat rolls and picturesque harbors and our kin who live twenty minutes from the Big Pond’s edge.
There’s something about Maine that’s not exactly easy to describe. It just feels good being here. We always head back to reality and more southerly climes with a bit of an ache, and a desire to stay longer. Much longer.
3 Cents' 