Brandy with John

It feels so strange being back. As I have driven farther and farther north a seductive blend of nerves, excitement, and nostalgia has grown until I feel like I might explode. I have been driving west and south and east, but I have somehow managed to avoid the northeastern reaches of our nation where I spent the first twenty years of my life. But now here I am in my F150 with the sea breeze blowing in through one window and the mountain air coming in through the other.

I am not a sentimental person. I don't look back on my childhood with rose colored glasses or a false sense of bliss, but there is something about the Maine air. I know some people tell you that you need to go to the mountains out in Colorado or Montana for the clearest, best air, but the Rockies don't hold a candle to the Maine coast. And I should know, I've been everywhere on this damn continent.

But these thoughts are all beside the point. The point is that here I am on Deer Isle driving towards Stonington and the home I haven't seen since I left it sixty-three years ago.

I am only moderately dismayed as I drive by the multimillion dollar estates that have replaced the modest cottages of my girlhood, but I can't be too surprised. The WASPs of Philadelphia, New York, and New England have been flocking to the Maine coast for years and they don't come empty handed. They bring construction crews, yacht clubs, and five star chefs with them, and while I'm not sold on the mansions or yacht clubs, I think I can give the chefs a try.

I pull into the parking lot of a lunch spot overlooking Webb Cove and see a sight stranger than an eighty-three year old woman in a giant pick-up truck. A middle aged man sits with a glass of brandy in one hand, a book in the other, and a giant poodle sprawled at his feet inside of a truck turned camper van that actually resembles more of a haphazard house on wheels with the word "Rocinante" scrawled across one side.

Now, I have seen a lot of strange things, but this man, dog, and vehicle are enough to surprise even me. I step slowly out of my truck and nod to the man.

"Hello," he says.

"Hi," I reply and then ask "does he bite?" gesturing towards the dog.

"Oh no," the man replies, "Charley is very well-behaved. My name is John, would you like to have a glass of brandy with me, or maybe pop?"

"Pearl," I reply, mindlessly petting the giant dog while trying to take in the fantastic scene in front of me. "I guess I can have one glass," I finally decide, "but brandy, no pop for me, they say that stuff kills."