I’ve spent the last week visiting with family at my grandparents’ place in Maine.
After hearing ‘Maine’ you’re probably picturing Bar Harbor or Portland, but this little town is much further north, closer to Canada than those picturesque coastal areas.
The house sits across from the Penobscot River though, and most days are spent fishing or canoeing or otherwise finding ways to avoid the mosquitoes by taking to the water. The river doesn’t want to give up its cover; my dad spends much of the day fighting back weeds to keep a path to the water clear.
Pop has been coming to Maine to hunt or fish or fly most of his life. Now he loves having a house where his kids and grandkids gather when they can make the long journey north.
He turns 86 next week though and he’s sick, so he’s been frustrated at not getting to do what he’s used to.
So this year, some activities feel like great victories. Pop rode his ATV down to the river’s edge and caught a fish on his first cast.
He directed us through replacing a propeller on a 50-year-old boat engine and was only mildly disappointed in our lack of mechanical prowess.
“I can tell none of my children or grandchildren were in the Navy,” Pop noted dryly. We’re learning.
