Lakes would have to be a close second. We're staying in a small camp on Damariscotta Lake, one of thousands. The Meyers keep this summer cottage about half an hour from their real home. Surrounded by oaks and pines, a swaying dock leads to a canoe, 4 kayaks, and an 18-foot sail boat. For three days we have the privilege of our own space as a family, to swim and float, and cook our own meals, make smores over a campfire as the daylight fades, and be on our own schedule. We were in the water most of Friday and Saturday, but the winds and clouds have picked up, and now after church it's about 60 degrees and grey. Good sailing weather, and Jack says the water is fine, but I'm wrapped in a blanket enjoying the shore.
Winding two-lane roads, modest houses, incessant green, blueberries for sale and a box of tomatoes by the roadside, historic towns, an outdoorsy laid-back atmosphere. What's not to like about Maine? But the main thing would have to be the kindness of our friends who made this weekend possible. It has been 17 years since Scott and I visited, Luke was in utero. We've seen the Meyers in Virginia on visits, but this is our first time back. Thankful for muffins and cookies and tours of the fabulous model railroad in their basement, and thankful for love and interest in us over all those years, for the grandparently smooth landing we can make here.