The Lincolnville Beach parking lot is as familiar as my own driveway. I know its every crack, fissure, and knicked granite curb. I instinctively step over the hole in the asphalt that opens up every year up by the sea wall, and know to walk gingerly on the rough concrete that leads to the stone steps.

This morning I began picking up litter on that parking lot for the 28th year. And while the cracks and fissures, and that ever-open hole greet me, so much has changed.

For one, Di Lord’s Beach Store. Last winter Di, a familiar face to those of us who live at this end of town, closed the store she’s run for the past many years, and before that at the old Hillside Market. The building had been sold to Owen Weyers, who had plans to open it back up in April.

Due to our changed circumstances, the store, with a new face as well as new owners, finally opened this past weekend with a take-out window right on the sidewalk, curbside service only.

Across the bridge a large For Sale sign covers up the Chez Michel billboard, and this year’s it’s definite: Michel Hetuin and Lillian Amborn have closed their restaurant after 30 years.

And across the road a sandwich board in front of the Whales Tooth Pub says “Sorry We’re Closed.”

The Lobster Pound, the traditional Mother’s Day destination for so many people, still wears its winter attire: stacked-up picnic tables, the bare armature of the tent at the back, and the “Thanks for a Great Season” message on its board.

Even Dwight Wass’ Lincolnville Fine Art Gallery has a message for us: “Summah’s Coming Stay Safe.”

Rick McLaughlin’s Lobster Shack on Ferry Road did open a couple of weeks ago with take out service only. Now that the weather’s finally turned a bit warmer diners can comfortably sit outdoors at the picnic tables. At certain times Rick’s parking lot and tables are full.

There’s no feel of anticipation, of activity building, of kitchens being stocked, tables set out. The community bulletin board on the bathroom kiosk is eerily empty, except for a handful of dog-eared, storm-battered business cards hanging from rusty tacks. Normally, the board is a tangle of announcements: summer camps, “Paint your house?”, lawn mowing services, music lessons, stuff for sale. It’s all I could do to keep the mess manageable, checking up on it every morning.

Today I picked up a few push pins on the ground, leaving them in a corner of the board. Maybe someone will come along with an announcement to post.

Even the litter is sparse. I pick up a candy cane, intact in its cellophane wrapper, obviously dropped at last December’s tree lighting.

The curbs have already been scoured by the big brushes that clean up the winter’s sand and gravel, so there are only a few dozen butts for me to pick up. The rugosa roses, true to their reputation, hide a fair number of them under their tangle of thorns. As MDOT’s (Dept. of Transportation) landscapers warned us years ago, rugosas are treacherous beach side plants. They’re invasive and form such a jungle of thorny branches that any paper or plastic that blows around gets trapped in them.

MDOT planted dozens of fancy hybrid roses that they promised would thrive in the salty air of the Beach. They didn’t, and over the years the Beach gardeners have brought in cuttings of their own rugosas, which love the salt air. They’re beautiful in bloom, which is most of the summer, and produce lovely, big orange rosehips in the fall. Prying litter out of the thorns is a small price to pay.

However, if you must smoke and throw your butts on the ground, please, not into the middle of a rugosa rose bush!

For the first time I’m wearing plastic gloves, a concession to my family who insisted. I rarely wear work gloves for anything; my fingernails are a disgrace, but honestly, how can you pick anything up in gloves?

Struggling to get a hold on a tiny piece of flotsam with those stupid gloves, I think of a local nurse’s description of working with Covid patients while wearing the proper gloves-gown-mask regalia of a critical care nurse. “Claustrophobic, hot, no contact with the patient” she said.

I guess my interaction with cigarette butts pales by comparison. I’ll learn. More adaptation.

The ancient peony, growing by a little-used path down through the underbrush, is right on schedule, a good foot high and looking perky. I watch for it every spring, imagining the people who planted it a century ago on the path to their shore front cabana. Their summer home is today’s Spouter Inn; the guys playing leap-frog in the photo hanging in the Beach kiosk represent those folks. The photo is one of dozens we (the Historical Society) found in an album from that house, people playing, swimming, wading on the same shore I walk every morning.

Every morning, May to October.

I have to do the math: our youngest son was 13 the summer I signed a contract with the town to pick up cigarette butts and all the other detritus left behind when people stop at the Beach. Though my name was on the agreement, I then hired our youngest son to do the job. Before that season was over Wally and I had taken over. It was easier than trying to get him out of bed and down to the Beach before the parking lot filled up.

It became our summer morning routine together; he emptied the trash barrels, first three, then five when the Beach renovation project added the diagonal parking and sidewalk leading to Ferry Road, while I picked up the litter. It was a pleasant, companionable time, working together.

Four years ago Wally spent most of May in Waldo Hospital, and I got a glimpse of my future, doing it all myself. Before long he was well enough to come down and keep me company every morning, and by the end of the summer he was doing the barrels again.

But the next summer he was gone. And I had to adapt. Now I’m three years into my own personal, new normal, and like everyone else am adapting to another – the reality of living in a pandemic.

Five boats are moored in the harbor this morning, but with no activity on the dock it looks quiet. Mike Hutchings has started putting out traps; his wife, Lynn, expects to be open Friday with lobsters for sale at their place on Beach Road – M & L Seafood. Want lobsters for Memorial Day week-end? That’ll be the place to find them.

Town

The Board of Assessors meet remotely at 6 p.m. Monday, May 18. To join the meeting click here.

The Budget Committee presents the school budget Tuesday, May 18 at 6 p.m. at a remote meeting.

The Town Office will be closed Monday, May 25, Memorial Day.

Still Another Reminder of What We Can’t Do

Mary Schulein reminds us that “Saturday would have been the opening day of the 8th season of the Lincolnville Center Indoor Flea market, a fun event sponsored by the United Christian Church.  Due to the present situation, the market has been suspended until further notice. I will miss these monthly gatherings and want to express my gratitude to all the vendors, volunteers, and donors who made the market happen and most of all, to all our neighbors and friends who have supported our efforts over these years.  Thank you all!  Stay well! Happy trails to you, until we meet again.”

But We Can Still Garden!

Anyone interested in tending a garden bed along Rt. 1 at Lincolnville Beach this summer please contact Lee by email or phone, 236-0028. A couple of hours weekly, plant your favorite flowers, and enjoy the raves from locals and visitors. A sign identifying your plot is included. We'll be planting the barrels, under the welcome sign, and the boat on Friday, May 22 at 10 a.m. in time for Memorial Day weekend. This is one activity that lets you get out and see people while still maintaining social distance.

Starting to Re-connect

Even though Maine has begun to officially, though tentatively reopen, with stores and as of today, restaurants welcoming the public back, everyone I know is wary. Maybe because I’m old and most of my friends are old too, mingling with others feels risky to us. Thankfully, the weather seems to have turned for the better, meaning we can see one another outdoors, and that ought to help.

Socially distant events, if they’re held outdoors, do feel safe. Walking with friends, sharing an outdoor meal, face to face – even six feet apart – conversations, these will make the summer bearable.

Strange times we’re living in for sure.