I hadn't taken a vacation lasting more than two days in over two years and hadn't been to Maine since 2017. Plans last year for an extended Abraham Lincoln pilgrimage to Illinois, Indiana, and Kentucky were derailed by COVID-19 and panic set in that 2021 would come and go with me once again taking my remaining use-or-lose vacation time at the end of the year in the least ideal weather. I concocted an itinerary where I would travel to both Vermont and Maine in the fall during a period where the weather still allowed for shorts, the season for some colorful leaves, and the timeframe for seasonal restaurants to still be open for me to devour my beloved Maine fried clams. Arrangements were made for my cats and turtles to be cared for and, once again, my stepsons Alvin and Alburt would accompany me as I packed my Subaru (not the first car I ever owned, BTW, would-be hackers) and headed up to Bennington, VT Wednesday afternoon.
Day 1
After a last-minute oil change and wiper replacement (more anon) and a trip to Trader Joe's to stack up on some marginally healthy snacks, the journey began. I expected my GPS to somehow take me somewhere through NYC and eventually get me to Bennington.
Imagine my surprise when the directions directed me to get off on Exit 11 to go west on the Garden State Parkway and take the exit to Route 17-North which, thankfully, got me straight to the NYS Thruway while circumventing NYC. The ride itself was pleasant enough, traveling north through the Catskills and brought back memories of trips through here in my younger days. However, the desolate feel of the drive, the ebbing of sunlight, and the antiquated feel of the rest areas I zipped by gave off an unsettled vibe that something bad was about to happen.
At a rest stop to fill up the fuel tank in the middle of (it seemed) nowhere, I was solicited for money by an unusually young and attractive female panhandler with an oddly faint voice. Thankfully, I survived unscathed. Later, after a bathroom break at yet another nondescript rest stop, I returned to my car to find that a souvenir Washington Capitals license place given to me by a kindly, thoughtful old woman at work about 25 years ago during a Secret Santa exchange was torn from the front of my vehicle. I wasn't even mad about this, but was quite saddened. However, I was determined not to get too down and I drove through Troy, NY and eventually got to my cozy room at the charming Bennington Motor Inn. I saw a beautiful moon and then my stepsons and I had a good night's sleep.
Next morning, I had a wonderfully hilly five-mile run that took me past the church where lies the immortal poet Robert Frost and the Bennington Battlefield Monument obelisk, then showered, and prepared for my day. After a quick stop at the gift shop by the Monument and a "breakfast" of an apple cider donut and maple-flavored soft serve ice cream (not as, well, maple-y as it tasted when I was in Bennington in 2019) at the Apple Barn, we started our ride. A friend asked if it was starting to look like fall and I, at first, said "Surprisingly, not that much," then, as we entered the mountains that gave Vermont its state nickname, had to revise myself, "I apparently lied" as I saw wonderful colors, old churches, small shops in small towns, and other New England delights as I made my way to the Calvin Coolidge Homestead at Plymouth Notch in central Vermont after a brief stop in Weston, VT at the famous Vermont Country Store.
Although I love American history and have had memorized the U.S. presidents since my elementary school days, I have to admit that the main appeal for visiting the early home of our 30th president was his wife, First Lady Grace Coolidge. As Amity Shlaes writes early on in her biography of Silent Cal, Grace was "one of the most beautiful first ladies" and, to my red-blooded American male eyes, perhaps the one with the best figure, at least according to my non-outlandish sensibilities with an appreciation of women who fit her description. Grace was also one of the more outgoing and beloved First Ladies of her time ala Dolley Madison, very loyal to her husband and classy, and, most endearing, took a raccoon given as a Thanksgiving gift to be eaten and made it a White House pet. If I were alive in the 1920's instead of the 2020's, Grace would have been the female celebrity to whom I would have been most attracted.
The Coolidge Homestead itself is nestled in the beautiful, colorful central Vermont mountains, part of a very small village where, if looking for a second when no cars or people with cell phones are around, you can transport yourself to the 19th century. Among the highlights of the town are 1) the Florence Gilley General Store, open since the 1850's, attached to which is the bedroom where President Coolidge was born on July 4th, 1872, 2) the Calvin Coolidge Homestead itself where Coolidge grew up and features the exact small table in the exact room where Coolidge's father (a notary) administered the Oath of Office to President Coolidge in August 1923 when news of President Harding's death reached Plymouth Notch, 3) The Plymouth Cheese Factory built by Calvin's father John in 1890, and 4) the Plymouth Cemetery where the very modest headstones mark the final resting places of Calvin and Grace Coolidge.
I definitely plan to visit the Coolidge Homestead in the future. Each year, there is a Coolidge 5K running race and, barring injury or happenstance, I plan to enter next year's event.
After visiting the nearby (walking distance) very modest gravesites of President Coolidge, Grace, and generations of Coolidges, the boys and I left Plymouth Notch. I prepared to cut straight through New Hampshire and stay overnight at some motel in Augusta, ME or Belfast, ME. However, with no network connection and, therefore, no GPS, I used an atlas I had the foresight to bring and was able to see a path to Route 4 via Route 100 and....of course, there was road construction preventing this. After rerouting, I drove by some picturesque lakes, mountains, and forests, through Woodstock, VT (stopping at a co-op with whose clientele I found appealing), and eventually got to Lebanon, NH where cell phone reception finally kicked in and both GPS systems I had routed me southeast all the way to Portsmouth, NH and then up the I-95 to Maine.
Tired, I called my cousin and stayed at his house in Windham, ME and we stayed up until after midnight talking about his family, our anticlimactic careers, sports, etc. And no politics.
Day 3
Went on an early morning run through the neighborhood where my cousin lived and ran on a nice dirt trail at Tassel Top Park, which has a beach of sorts for Lake Sebago. Heading back to my cousin's house right at about the preplanned five mile mark, I decided to do "just a little bit more," somehow got lost, and ended up running far more than planned.
I drove up the Maine Turnpike, bought a shirt at a Kohl's in Augusta because I realized earlier that morning that I had packed the wrong black shirt, and then headed east on Route 3. First destination: McLaughlin's in Lincolnville Beach to get the fried clams I had waited four years to eat where I got two shocks. The first was the fact that the rubber on my left windshield wiper was suddenly loose. Before leaving for vacation, I had the auto dealer change the right windshield wiper because the rubber on it was loose. Did they give me a new windshield wiper like I thought I bought, or just switched them around?
The more significant shock was the cost of the fried clams at McLaughlin's, $16.95 plus tax for a half a pint. "Wow!," I thought, "they are really taking advantage of tourists!" as I bought a half pint for myself and one for my stepsons. Anyway, this was an appetizer as I prepared to head up to Route 15 to go to Bagaduce's in Penobscot, ME, where I would get to eat delicious fried clams and onion rings cooked in a way apparently unique to Maine sitting at a table overlooking the bay. A quick Google search showed Bagaduce's would be open until 6:30 PM, so I had plenty of time to get there.
The quaint, pastoral churches and the peaceful New England remoteness we drove by in Vermont and Maine had zero influence in preventing me from unleashing a barrage of curses after reaching Bagaduce's only to find that it was closed for the season. "%#*&!!!!!!!! Update your (further expletives) page already!!!!" I ended up paying about $40.00 for a large basket of fried clams and onion rings at a take-out stand in Deer Isle. After my first-ever trip to the town of Castine, site of one of the worst defeats suffered by the Colonials during the American Revolution, we drove to my aunt's house in Deer Isle overlooking the ocean (it is as nice and peaceful as it reads), where we were to stay for the next two nights. My aunt and uncle and I discussed a variety of things. I learned that the exorbitant price of the fried clams was no accident. The waters in the surrounding areas have gotten warmer due to global warming, making clams and lobsters scarce in the area and very, very expensive. (I still have an article from the Bangor Daily News where this was reported, but could now feel the impact directly). I also learned from my aunt that Daniel O' Donnell was virtually the greatest-ever singer. Pop, rock, country, folk, opera, ballads, gospel, rap for all I know, he can sing it all wonderfully, etc. Needless to say, I was a bit underwhelmed once I saw him perform for the first time.
Day 4
I learned more about the Deer Isle/Stonington area that morning. I learned that this small island was a COVID-19 hotspot where masking was now mandatory for all stores. (I was gratified to see that, even in this remote part of the country, everyone was complying when I went to a few stores.) Even more sad, I learned that there was a crisis shortage of nurses' aides, in part because of the pandemic, so much so that the nursing home where my grandmother lived her final years was closing for good and its inhabitants were already being moved to Bangor and Belfast, about an hour away, which would mean that loved ones would not be visiting as much, a casualty of COVID-19 not commonly reported.
After leaving my aunt's house, we headed to Ellsworth (gateway to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park) to the Big Chicken Barn, a huge antique and used books/vintage magazines store. For some reason, my stepsons were VERY, VERY enthusiastic when I mentioned going to the Chicken Barn, disconcertingly so, to be honest. Once inside, I noticed that many patrons were not masked. As I was staying as a guest at the home of two fully vaccinated, yet senior citizens, I did not want to take any chances and got out of there as fast as possible. My stepsons were very down when I got back to my car, although they did not explain why.
We next went to Bar Harbor. Rainy, overcrowded, 90% of the people unmasked, no parking- time to abort mission. To salvage the day, we took Route 1 up to Winter Harbor and to Schoodic Point, a lovely, untainted, remote-feeling adjunct of Acadia National Park full of ocean scenery and pine trees about 45 minutes away. Driving back from Schoodic Point, we stopped in Hancock, ME at Yu (not a typo) Takeout and, for $60.00 total, each had delicious fried clams and golden French fries.
Heading back to Deer Isle, I told my kids we were going to stop at Caterpillar Hill and, again disconcertingly, they got awfully excited. I pulled up and the weather was too foggy to see the Deer Isle-Sedgwick Bridge, or much of anything. Bummer. I was disappointed, but my kids took it really hard, again without explaining why.
Day 5
One of my goals for the vacation was to see a sunrise on the ocean in Maine. Unfortunately, heavy rains conspired against this during my stay at Deer Isle. I did not even run either day I was in Deer Isle, in part because of the weather and in part because of my aunt telling me that coyotes are in the area quite often. They pose no threat so don't let that deter you from running, my aunt said. Na'ah, that's okay. I'm good- don't need any Acme weaponry aimed at me. After a Sunday afternoon lunch with my cousins and their kids where this non-meat, non-beef, non-poultry eater ate peas and corn and toast (precisely the cuisine I came to Maine for), I went to Stonington to visit my grandparents' graves, to sit in Stonington's harbor to watch the boats, and to stock up on Humpty Dumpty Barbeque Chips at the Burnt Cove Market. I then began my trek south with plans to go to Salem, Massachusetts the following day to see the House of the Seven Gables. Driving on the fly, with no particular place to go, a last-minute plan to stay at Sands By the Sea Motel in York Beach, Maine RIGHT ACROSS THE BLOCK FROM THE OCEAN was hatched, and this turned out to be the highlight of the vacation. After taking an unnecessarily circuitous route there (I realized afterward my GPS was set to avoid tolls), I pulled in just in time to enjoy a beautiful moon with the beach all to myself, Alvin and Alburt off to themselves to do Heaven Knows What.
Day 6
Learning that sunrise was at 6:36 AM, I set my alarm for 5:45 AM. Being a novice in enjoying sunrises, never having seen one on the ocean in my life, I presumed it would be pitch dark and I would eventually start to see light. Stepping outside and already seeing shards of daylight, I hurried outside in a panic and, except for one older man on a bench and a woman sitting in her car, I had this beautiful beach all to myself! I was transfixed watching, waiting, seeing seagulls flying as the morning got lighter and lighter and, finally at the appointed time, this small yellow ball rose up from the water. It was an emotional, breathtaking, spiritual experience for me, a moment I cannot wait to repeat, although company would have been nice.
Hungry, I went to a small local eatery named Sandy's where I had a delicious fried eggs and cinnamon French toast breakfast. The waitress was wonderful. After a visit to the famous Nubble Lighthouse that screams New England about a mile or so down the road, I headed down to Salem, passing through Kittery, ME, birthplace of The Association's Russ Giguere along the way.
Salem was a major disappointment, far removed from the recollections I had of it from my previous visit there back in 2000. However, nestled in this mini metropolis of crowded, uninteresting streets of nondescription, was the House of the Seven Gables, inspiration for the Nathaniel Hawthorne novel of the same name. I paid $20.00 to take the guided tour and, although I really liked the tour guide, the history of the house, Hawthorne's birthplace (a house within the confines of the site, moved from its original location a few blocks away), and the other visuals at the site were just not interesting, although it was great to walk up the narrow, winding secret staircase inside the House of the Seven Gables. After the tour, I walked around the grounds, then chatted up the tour guide as she was sitting at one of the stations, walked around the grounds some more, then got my ass out of Salem before rush hour and got ready to head home.
Thankfully, the trip back was uneventful, with the usual highlights of past New England trips when traveling on the major roads: 1) stop at Papa Gino's at a Massachusetts Turnpike rest area for a slice of pizza, 2) drive past WWE headquarters in Stamford, CT on the I-95, 3) take the Cross Bronx Expressway over the George Washington Bridge, 4) suddenly realize I have to pee 1/2 way down the New Jersey Turnpike and stop at a rest area to take care of that and get a bite to eat, 5) wondering will this Turnpike ever end, and 6) saying to myself, "Damn, now I'm back in Delaware," and realizing my escape to another world has ended.
I never did wear the shirt I bought at Kohl's.
