In Maine, we have a few chores to do that differ vastly from the boring laundry, raking, changing lightbulbs, vacuuming the dogs (what, like you’ve never at least thought of vacuuming your dog? Fred loved it)… anyway, we have some different types of chores here.

Like the other day something was amiss so I made a call to PeterCole.

Alloneword.

But said in a Maine accent, so really it’s PeetahCole.

Among a few other things, PeterCole makes sure our mooring is all safe and sound and secure. We don’t have a boat of our own, so we have a ‘guest mooring’, a big giant white ball attached to a heavy chain, attached to… well, I’m not sure what.

Probably lobsters.

Anyway, the big white ball floats out in the water in front of our house and, if friends come by in a boat that is too big to pull up to our dock, they tie it to the mooring and use a smaller boat to pull up.

That’s called visiting.

It’s a Maine thing.

So the other day I called PeterCole, and this is what happened:

Me: “Hi is this PeterCole?”

PeterCole: “Yah.”

Me: “Hi there. This is Lisa Dingle from over on Landing Road.”

PeterCole: “Yah.”

Me: “So…. I have a wHierd thing. So my mooring is lost.  I can’t see it. I think the ball floated away.”

PeterCole: “Ah. Nope. I just hah-vant gotten out they-ah to put it on. Ahm sorry. Ahm headed out they-ah this aft-ah-noon though. So it’ll be awn by dahk.”

Me: “Oh thank you! I really appreciate it.”

PeterCole: “Yah.”

Aaaaaaaaaaaad…. scene (dramatic, I know).

So sure enough, a few hours later..

And that was the chore.

Maine-style.

And now, the mooring ball awaits her same-ly named boat.

No, most moorings don’t have names.  But ours does.

Exile.

She’s had a name since a handful of summers ago, when JoHn, Sam, and I paddled out to her with paint and a big brush and heavy hearts.

Our mooring was first used by one boat, and she’s a big one.

A beauty.

Yar.

Great brightwork.

I’m very yacht-y.

As a matter of fact, when she came around the point, and we could see her mast at the end of Landing Road (which used to have a steamboat landing at the end of it, hence the name), we were in awe.

And when she was on our mooring, we were puffed up like peacocks.

“Yep, that’s our boat!” we’d say and laugh and our friends would play along.

A 41 foot racing yacht of ‘our own’.

Each year, we’d wait for our friends to come visit, and for Exile to take her celebrated  place, on our mooring, in our cove.

Then, one summer, our friends were both battling cancer… at the same time.

Our mooring was conspicuously empty.

A reminder.

Of love…

and hope.

And how lucky we are to have great humans in our lives.

That was the summer we named our mooring.

And every spring, when we see it… or when we paddle by it in our kayaks, we think of our friends.  And we give thanks that they both made it through.  Big thanks.

And are still gracing – and sometimes racing around – the world with their character, and humor.

The Inn, our place in Maine, could have been just a one dimensional place of escape.

To get out of dodge for a few weeks each summer.

But it isn’t.

In the ten years that we’ve owned it, we’ve amassed stories and contributed to the layers that make up ‘real life’.

We’ve experienced broken bones, school searches, rope swings, learning disabilities, thunder-storm ultimate football, brain stuff/heart stuff/cancer stuff/ and even E. Coli descending on family and or friends, watching boats and stars, fog and grief, and evening runs to Wanna Waff for to-die-for ice cream sundaes on freshly-created warm waffles.

This old house in Maine has sheltered us through it all.

Its solid foundation and walls…

The warmth offered by its fireplaces…

The scent of saltwater on cool breezes…

Gardens and bees and hummingbirds outside of each door.

Here life feels a little more magical.

Even the real stuff.

Especially the real stuff.

Thanks for readin’.

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