I first came to New England, to college, when I was 18. A Midwesterner born and bred, I knew nothing of softly rolling, forested hills, of rocky shores, of salt water. Of shallow soils, black flies, or fog. Or any hint that this would be my home for the next 60 years.

Except for a couple of camping trips to the White Mountains, and a foray or two into Quebec, I, along with the husband I found at my kitchen table in St. George one long ago morning, rarely left our house at the top of Sleepy Hollow. A bit of an exaggeration, as we traveled to visit our far-flung sons in Italy, Switzerland, Taiwan and Australia once they’d left the nest. Still, most nights since July of 1970 we were tucked in right here in Lincolnville, Maine. Until, that is, the January evening four and a half years ago when Wally died.

I’ve wondered at the insularity of many New Englanders who seem to have little sense of geography beyond say, New York. Anything west of there is a muddle: Indiana, Iowa, Idaho? Ohio, Illinois, Arkansas? Where does the Mississippi fit in? The Great Lakes? What are they?

We Midwesterners know the states on all sides of ourselves; we can stack the Dakotas on top of Nebraska, Kansas and Oklahoma with ease. New England, on the other hand, is such a neat little region, six tiny states – well, five plus giant Maine – that are simple to keep track of. But it turns out I had no idea Vermont was so far away.

This past weekend Don and I set off to a baby shower in Vermont. That might sound ambitious if you know your way around New England, but to me it sounded like a piece of cake. A few hours and we’d be there, celebrating his first step great-grandchild (yes, families are certainly complicated these days) and seeing the land where the new parents-to-be had settled.

“Why do we have to go to Portsmouth to get there?” I wondered, silently whining that the drive down 95 is so boring. Couldn’t we just take a few back roads over to New Hampshire, and that being such a skinny state, end up in Vermont by lunchtime? Uh, no, he said.

And of course, he was right. There apparently is no “good” east-west road, easily accessible from the Midcoast, across northern New England. Five hours and a few sharp words later, we arrived in Rockingham, Vermont, to be greeted by Don’s extended family, all familiar to me now through seaside picnics, Christmas-by-the-Sea bonfires, and the wedding of that young couple now expecting their first child.

Like everything else about modern life, baby showers have changed since “my” day, when only women would gather, dressed in their best, to eat dainty sandwiches, drink ice tea and bestow prettily wrapped gifts on the mother-to-be, as well as sharing with the poor girl their own harrowing birth stories. Very genteel, very sweet, totally predictable.

Some 40 of the couple’s friends – new and old, siblings, parents, and grandparents, including steps and partners, had been invited to their shower.

We sat under the trees by the side of their very much still under reconstruction new-old farmhouse, tiny white onsies hanging on a clothesline waiting to be tie-dyed by the guests. Some of us ventured down the steep switchback trail behind the house to take a swim in the river that runs through the property. Actually, it’s a gorge, rock cliffs and all, a stunning thing to have in your backyard. Don and I had been waiting to see it ever since we’d heard about it at their wedding. I got partway down the trail before he made me turn around; it was way too steep for my new knee (though I still think I could have done it!), but he Facetimed me the view from the bottom. As soon as I can I want to come back!

The swimmers returned in time for the food, platters and bowls of guacamole, pulled pork, burgers—veggie and beef, vegan salads, corn on the cob, a cornucopia of garden goodies, coolers of beer and wine. We were kept busy for quite a while. Then the presents.

In front of all of us, as well as a laptop Zoom meeting for those who couldn’t make the trip to far-distant Vermont, the parents-to-be opened the mound of gifts. We imagined the little guy – his name is Arlo – who’ll wear the tiny clothes, wrap up in the hand-made blankets, and hear the stories read from the stack of favorites (Good Night Moon, Blueberries for Sal, The Little Engine That Could, Hungry Caterpillar) awaiting his arrival.

Arlo’s baby shower was the perfect way to open up after the long pandemic year. More than a year, right?

I was ready to argue for an alternate route home on Sunday. Couldn’t we find a more circuitous way? Wander through small towns, find a nice place to eat on the way? The trip over – 95 to 101 to 9 to 91 to 89 – interstates and state highways are quicker (and apparently safer) than meandering through the back country, but oh so boring. Trees, trees, trees, lots of curves, rarely a house. And never a place to eat. Unless you count the one gas station/market we found on Route 9.

Apparently, my imaginary route wouldn’t get us home till midnight. Since Don lived in New Hampshire for some 30 years I had to admit he might know more about it than I did. So, it would be back the way we’d come. But we took our time. Hunted down the Vermont Country Store, a place I pictured as having all sorts of cool, non-electronic gadgets for people living off the grid, the kind of place the Amish shopped for necessities.  Well, I was wrong. That must have been some other Whole Earth Catalog kind of daydream. This Country Store is an enormous emporium of clothes and nostalgic candies and housewares and toys, and well, stuff, pretty expensive stuff. Fun to wander around and look at – I bought a $7 cast iron monkey hook to hang my onion strings from, and Don bought a package of maple cob smoked bacon which he promised to share with me.

The clerks, and here’s the important part, were actually engaging. Answering our questions, smiling, glad we were there. Professional I’d say. The place was obviously a well-run enterprise.

Breakfast was next on our homeward saga. We spent miles conjuring up the perfect breakfast, sitting at a table with a real omelet and homefries, definitely not a gas station sandwich plucked from a cooler, eaten in the car. But N.H. Route 9 is pretty bleak, as I said, trees. Then a big sign – Sugar Shack Restaurant – appeared, an arrow pointing down an unlikely little road. Our daydream come true. The place was packed, ball caps and T-shirts galore. This was no fancy brunch place. We went with the corned beef hash, two eggs, the works. The waitress, the hostess, the cashier were all young and sweet, genuinely friendly. Two of them actually admired the necklace I was wearing. How often does that happen?

Our final stop was just off 91 in Concord: the N.H. liquor store. Egad. By now it was mid-afternoon on a really hot June Sunday. The parking lot was packed, the place enormous. One whole wall of vodka, gallons of booze of every kind. We were thinking G and Ts for hot summer nights and finally found the surprisingly small gin section. The cashier, an older, tired-looking woman barely acknowledged us (why should she?), looking as if she just wanted out of the place as much as we did. We made it out to the car through the sweltering parking lot, as people took their dogs into the shrubbery, apparently the acceptable canine bathroom.

We finally crossed the bridge in Kittery, and I have to admit to tearing up at the “Welcome Home” sign as we entered Maine.

Watercolor Journaling Back!

Julie Turkevich writes:

“Following a long absence from gathering, we will meet this Wednesday for fun with watercolors at the Lincolnville Library, 3-5 pm! Bring your paints, paper and brushes, ideas and any "show and tell" you would like to share. For an added treat, Cyrene Slegona will demonstrate a folding technique for making a booklet from one sheet of paper. Hope to see you Wednesday”

Soup Café Schedule

The Soup Café, sponsored by United Christian Church and held Thursdays, noon to 1 p.m. at the Community Building is a free lunch, with donations accepted, for anyone in town: several soups including a vegetarian one, breads, and sweets. For now, it will be held three Thursdays a month, all but the first Thursday. So this week, July 1, it will not be held. See you next week!