Maine Squeeze Part One

ER sister, Ann, has one last summer fling every year: she takes a last weekend in Maine.
Earlier in the summer, she rents a huge house about two miles from the Bush family compound and plants the entire clan for two weeks. (Somehow, my forever Democratic familia, esconced so closely to the Evil Other seems fantastical, but, it is truth. I have now been a living witness to the fact.) But that is the beginning of summer--when the mosquitoes roar and the touristas are known by their sizzling skin. When the first leaves in MA begin to show off their colors and the nights are beginning to carry the scent of woodsmoke, it is then that Ann heads up north for a final summer good-bye. Honky-tonky Old Orchard is the destination. A hotel that allows dog owners access to a beach and all the clean towels beachy dogs require.

So, on Friday, she packs up dog,Maeve, about five tote bags of Maeve's "stuff", her own one piece of "personal luggage"--and me, the oldest sister. (This year, Mom begged off because of not feeling "up to it".)
Other little sister, Bren, begged off--still slightly put out because my moving back in put her out, literally, while she's between houses.
When Bren found out Mom had reniged, suddenly, Bren wanted back.
"Why didn't you tell me it was just you guys?!" Bren called Ann on Thursday night.
"Too late," Ann shook her head, stubbed out her Marlboro (cigarette choice of nine out of ten smoking nurses...)and scratched the dog.
Bren hung up, seething.
Oh well...

"I don't think Bren's too happy with me--" I look out at the torrential downpour flooding the turnpike.
"She's upset because she found out too late about Mom not coming--" Ann passes a slow moving van, swearing under her breath and lighting another Marlboro red.
"Yeah--what's up with that? I feel kinda bad," I reach behind my head rest and scratch Maeve's chin.
"Ma wants us to "bond".
"What?!" I am incredulous.
"Don't fight it--" Ann peels around a slower-moving Fiat. "Fix it again, Tony!" she chuckles as we pass the car in a wave.
(We are bonding.)

By the time we arrive in Old Orchard Beach, the sky is a dirty marshmellow. Maeve jumps from Ann's jeep, landing in a puddle. There are no other cars at the dog motel. We are it.
"Take her down to the sand--here's the poop bag," Ann holds out a baggie. It immediately begins to fill with rain.
I have no choice. Maeve must do what Maeve must do and Ann must unpack all of Maeve's accoutrements.

Rain rushes down the inside of my leather jacket, into my jeans. I am miserable. I pull my collar up only giving a more direct route to my backbone. Maeve, too, is distracted. Macha dog, she raises a hind leg and squirts the rusting trash can, on the edge of the lot.

"Take her way down there!" Ann yells from the balcony.

Ann has sherpaed two bags on each arm, a backpack and purse (which weighs fifty pounds--according to my father's last guess) and something that resembles an alligator trap, up to the balcony. The cigarette is still clamped between her lips. Her sunglasses keep her waist-length blonde hair out of her eyes. Her CROCS slap the wet, outdoor carpeting on the balcony, as she makes her way to her room. (Also Maeve's room.)

Maeve hasn't listened to Ann. Maeve hates the rain. She isn't too thrilled with the incoming tide, either. I have to pull her,and her fifty foot "running tether", down to the edge of the water.
I try not to watch as she squeezes out a tootsie-roll, then bolts back, in a direct line, for the motel.

I don't know why I am so embarrassed at doing the "right thing", but I am. I turn the baggie inside out, close my eyes, locate the "present" and grasp it in the plastic-clad hand. I am shocked at how hot it is--tiny or not! Rapidly, I twist the bag closed and avoid even so much as a whiff of waste. Thankfully, another green, rusty barrel, is about three yards away, on the beach. I toss the package in a wide arc and make the shot. (Ahh, freedom!)

Allowing Maeve to think she's headed back, out of the rain, I walk out toward the waves with a loose leash.

Then, I truly inhale.
Atlantic seasalt. Freezing mist. Waves smashing the sand below my Uggs.
No oil rigs here. No big haulers. Not so much as a single paddle board. Just gray, empty anger of the sea. Clouds that make me want to pull out a paintset. Cold, clean sand.
This is Maine as I remember it. Off season. My glasses fogged over. Lips trembling. My hair in freezing clumps.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Suddenly, I flash on girlfriend Gail, not seen since college, telling me of her travels all over the planet. One night, somewhere in Europe, on the edge of a similar scene, she whipped off her Burberry and held out her arms to the wind--wanting the drilling rain to enter her consciousness. Wanting to feel exactly this: alive. (Where have you landed, Gail? Do you ever think of me when you watch the sea?)

Maeve barks me to reality. She is pissed off. Why don't I get myself back where it is warm, dry, there are assorted doggie treats and her mother is waiting with a fluffy blanket?
I hustle. (I am getting re-trained by everybody in the family, including the dog.) Maeve stops to pee in a puddle...which I find a bit over- the- top...then sniffs a crab shell. Deciding it is beneath her interest, she continues down the sandy path, pulling me as if I were a sled and she a Husky.
(Cavalier Prince Charles spaniels are like this...and she is pure.)

"You have the single. Maeve and I will share this room." Ann throws me a towel for my head.
Maeve has already claimed one of the beds. (I know when it comes to sleep, though, she will hop onto Ann's. They've worked this out for seven years.) I don't argue. I'm happy these days to sleep by myself. A kind of luxury.

"Lobster for dinner?" Ann thumbs through a directory.

I brighten, taking the towel with me to my empty room. The door is unlocked. Ann has dumped my backpack on the floor, by my queen-sized bed. I flick on a light--as much for warmth as for brightness. It is still chilly inside; damp as only beachside rooms tend to be.

The room has a big t.v. A bigger bed than Ann's--who has, as always, generously paid for everything up front. There is the kitchenette--with coffee maker and frig and microwave and everything someone crashing at the beach (or hiding from the law) might need. I open the windows to let the salted air seep in. Banish any taint of closed-in-ed-ness.

Maine still smells the same. Four decades later, my nostrils confirm this fact. I whistle for no reason, (then stop, realizing, this IS a dog motel; even if I am happy.)

"Lobster, corn on the cob,baked potato...hot drawn butter...home made bread..." I am singing as I head for the scalding shower.

"And salt water taffy and lighthouses and clam chowder...hurry up, " Ann hollars down the empty balcony. "We want to beat the crowds..."