Travel, Then and Now

An American Abroad

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: It's a very exciting day here at Chateau Hugo-Vidal, because Virginia, aka Youngest, is coming home from the Netherlands on winter break! You may recall she got into her dream grad program in The Hague, and has been there since the beginning of September (after kindly taking care of me for a month post-knee replacement.) She didn't come home for Christmas because she wanted to both travel and bring the Million Dollar Cat back with her, so she spent New Year's in Berlin and Vienna before taking the long flight home (Amsterdam to Boston via Reykjavik.)

 

Having my child at school overseas makes me think of my own experience going to college in London back in '82-'83. Honestly, technology has changed things so much, it feels two different centuries.

Wait - it is two different centuries. Well, you know what I mean. Except for the fact I flew across the Atlantic instead of sailing, I'm pretty sure my time in Europe had more in common with a young woman traveling in 1924 than in 2024. For instance:

 

Paper tickets. I had my return Christmas time flight when left the US in August, and I lived in terror of that physical ticket somehow getting lost. Of course, I bought Virginia's tickets online, and she's using her Icelandair app to access them (along with weather reports, delay notifications, etc. etc.) At least the paper tickets didn't display ads.

 

Traveling across Europe. There were flights, obviously, but in the early eighties they were well out of the reach of students. At least, students whose parents had them on a budget. I traveled everywhere via rail, using my Eurailpass. I have no idea what it cost, but boy, it had to have been a bargain considering how many miles I put on it. Virginia, on the other hand, took advantage of one of the many discount airlines and flew to Austria. My nephew is going to university in Athens, and he's flown on every trip he's taken in the past two years. I love me some trains, but I have to admit I could have skipped sitting up all night while going from Rome to Paris.

 

Speaking of budgets: American Express Traveler's Cheques. Yes, there is a certain romance to the whole "stopping at the American Express office for your mail" thing. But I was convinced I'd lose my wallet (it was always happening in the commercials!) and would suffer the embarrassment of being the Yankee tourist who needed replacements. I wasn't any more organized then than I am now, and thinking back, I'm boggled my parents trusted me with what was essentially a booklet worth $2000. Everything is electronic for Virginia - in fact, she says the Netherlands are close to being cash-free.

 

Cash! The euro was only a vague idea in some idealist's minds when I was going to school. Every new country I went, I had to stop into a cambio to trade Traveler's Cheques for marks, lira, francs, and pounds. Ans then, of course, at the end of my year abroad, I had a weird assortment of different currencies that always seemed to be just under the amount an American bank would accept. 

Of course, possibly the biggest difference is communication. Before my term started in England, I took part in an archaeological dig in Tuscany and then traveled around Italy and southern France for a total of six weeks, during which time I sent exactly zero postcards or letters home. My poor mother! I was better once I had settled into my London lodgings, and wrote a dutiful weekly letter on crinkly onionskin airmail stationery. I called home twice in the fall semester; one for my brother's birthday, and then again when I had to let my parents know I had missed my Christmastime flight from Heathrow to New York. (The conversation went like this - Mom: Hello? Me: Pass the phone to Dad.)

Meanwhile, Virginia texts with me and her siblings almost daily, and we've had loads of video calls using WhatsApp (highly recommended.) I'm so grateful I didn't have to go through what my mom did (plus, I have no doubt Virginia will make her flight home with time to spare.)

 

 

There's one thing was was decidedly better back in the day - when I left and when I returned, my folks were waiting for me right by the gate as I came off the plane. (Those of you under the age of 30 or so will find this astonishing.) In 2025, I'll be circling Terminal E, waiting for my daughter to clear customs. But we'll be just as happy reuniting as my parents and I were.

How about you, dear readers? What are your travel memories from a bygone age? And what's better now?

What We're Writing Week: Julia Snuggles and Listens to Podcasts

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Like Lucy's upcoming Key West mystery, the manuscript of AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY is also in the repair shop. (I love that metaphor and I'm going to use it for the rest of my life.) So how am I proceeding with the edits? Snuggling and listening to podcasts.

Wait - it's not quite what it sounds like. I kicked off the process at a mini-writing retreat with my friend Jessica Ellicott, who is a great person with whom to bounce questions and toss ideas back and forth. I came home with a good grasp of how I was going to address the trickier changes my editor had asked for in his letter. (Yes, I know they're all emails now, but I still call it a letter.)

I also came home with a post surgical cat with a plate in its femur. Not obtained at Jessica's place; I picked him up from the Portland Animal Hospital, where he'd been staying four the past four nights. And if you're thinking, Four nights in hospital and surgery... that sounds expensive! you have NO IDEA. (Not that the doctors and nurses don't deserve it. They're amazing.)

Dear readers, this isn't even my cat. You may recall my daughter Youngest, is off in the Netherlands getting a masters degree. Well, along with the entire contents of her apartment, she left me with her barely-two-year-old kitty, Walker. 

Yes, those are the remains of my Post-its outline!

For a month and a half, Walker was so awed by This Old House's 3,000 square feet, he didn't even look when the front or back doors were opened. Alas, as anyone who has had a cat knows, that didn't last. A tad over two weeks ago, he escaped while I was bringing the dogs in, and at some point, had a close encounter with a car. No, no one stopped. Ugh.

The good news is, after $10,000 skilled and attentive medical care, he's projected to make a full recovery... if he stays in the large dog crate I've erected next to the desk in my office for eight weeks. No jumping, climbing or excessive weight on that leg. 

So, we're in this together, Walker and I. (The dogs are scornful lookers-on.) The cat is a very cuddly fellow, who formerly spent evenings resting against my head as I read or watched TV, and who used to sprawl out next to my laptop as I worked. He needs highly supervised time out of kitty jail, without the Collar of Shame. (He also gets his litter changed twice daily and special treats following his gabapentin. I feel like a Victorian nurse caring for an invalid baron.)

Hanging on to that collar just in case

Which (finally!) leads to me snuggling and listening to podcasts. I try to sit with Walker on the loveseat in my office three times daily. The evening is easy - I'm often streaming a show. But morning and afternoon, I've taken to putting a writer-oriented podcast on my laptop or phone. Specifically, I'm listening to shows about editing, both to keep me in the groove and to give me ideas for making my stitched-together novel prettier. 

Some of what I've found useful: Fiction Writing Made Easy, The Creative Writer's Toolbelt, The Creative Penn Podcast, DIY MFA and Writing Excuses. I love learning from other authors. And I love feeling inspired to get back to my computer after re-inserting Walker's head in the Cone of Shame and gently laying him in his fluffy bed. Yes, I bought it new just for the recovery kennel. 

Dear readers, do you have podcasts you use for inspiration and education? Or, alternately, tell me tales of your pet's expensive medical treatment!

Dag en tot kijk!

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Those of you who've been following this blog for a long time have seen my daughter Youngest, grow up. You've read about her "Think it over Baby" and her French exchange student while she was in middle school.  You've seen her go to Hawai'i for the first Christmas after Ross died, and then triumphantly graduate high school six months later. You've been with her when she decided on the University of Maine, and when she went back in the middle of an international pandemic.

 

You've seen her at midsummer and at Christmas, continually aggrieved by my sentimental reading of  'Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.' You've followed along as she joined a sorority, spent a summer term abroad, and got her first car. She's even written here about growing up as an author's kid, back when she was fourteen. 

 

Well, now she's off on the next adventure: in two weeks, she'll be leaving the US for the Netherlands. She's been accepted into grad school at the University of Leiden's master's program in Crisis and Security Management, specializing in War and Peace Studies.

 

In other words, Youngest is going to The Hague. 

 

(As you can imagine, her family is getting a lot of mileage from that joke.) The program is a year, after which she will qualify for a one-year post-study work visa. When will we see her again at home? Probably Christmas. When will she return full time the US? That's... an open question. Most of the work in every field of international conflict resolution and response happens in The Hague or in Brussels. So her brother and sister and I are all making sure our passports are up to date - and that we've all downloaded WhatsApp.

 

The most amazing part of this is how little I've had to do to help her transition. Student visa, apartment, international phone service, airplane ticket - she's handled it all herself. The only service I'm providing is to store what furniture she's not selling or giving away and - big sigh - taking her cat, Walker. Her intention is to bring him over as well. We'll see what happens.

 

I feel a bit like I did when Spencer joined the Navy, and when Victoria bought her house. How can you do that? You're just a little kid! But of course, she's not anymore. None of them are. It's truly one of life's great joys to see people you knew as wee small children become, as my son likes to say, "grown-ass men and women."

So please join me in congratulating Youngest for the big life step she's taking. She's right here at home - along with prepping to leave, she's taking care of me post-surgery. And let me know what adventures the former children in your life have embarked on!

 

Oh, the title? That's Dutch for Farewell, until we meet again!

 

A Series of Fortunate Events, or, The Rather Dull Travelogue

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I planned to write about traveling today, since my trip to join the Sailor and Veronique for her graduation involved the Maine Millennial, Youngest and I driving to the Portland Transportation Center, taking a (very nice) bus to Logan Airport, flying to DC, renting a car, and driving from Alexandria (borrowed an inflatable bed from my sister) to Norfolk. 

And then, of course, we did it all over again in reverse, fitting in an actual short visit with my sister on the return end. If we had managed to fit in a train ride and a ferry, we would have hit every form of possible travel, excepting ocean liners and the SpaceX Falcon 9.

But... everything went too smoothly! We arrived at every stage with plenty of time to spare. There were no traffic snarls or overbooked flights. (At least not for us. If you were going from Boston to Pittsburgh the same time we were headed for DC, you had the chance to give up your seat for $900. Victoria said, "I''m switching my flight to Pittsburgh.") 

The bus was full, but not so full that the girls couldn't sit together, and although we had to wait almost a half hour to sign out our rental car, we got an upgrade, so I had zero complaints. We found bathrooms and rest stops and places to quickly buy good food with no difficulties. In fact, as I type this, I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It all went so suspiciously well.

So now I'm left with no comical disaster stories about my trip. Instead, I'll just comment on how lovely it is to travel with adult children. They are old enough to watch the bags, pay for some of the meals, and take a turn behind the wheel. And since I don't live with them anymore, the inevitable stresses of the journey are well compensated by the chance to talk and laugh together. We're all close enough so I can explain why I'm skipping dairy, but they have different enough lives that we can have really interesting conversations. (My age-mate friends and I tend to talk a lot about retirement plans.)

I saw young families with small kids in tow or babies in carriers, and I wanted to go up and tell them, "It won't always be like this. You won't always be hauling enough gear to climb Mount Everest. You'll be able to read on the plane instead of spending all your time keeping your infant quiet. Instead of filling your bag with healthy kids' treats, you can have one or two things you enjoy. Although they won't have any dairy, because you will have become lactose intolerant." 

Dear readers, do you have any good, event-free travel stories to share? And have you had the pleasure of making a trip with former kids-turned-great companions?

Buddy: Eulogy For A Good Dog

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: On Thursday, I buried a dog. 

At the very beginning of 2021, I drove my daughter Virginia (known here as Youngest) to a Target parking lot near Albany, NY to pick up a Shih Tzu she had adopted from a senior dog rescue organization. This Shih Tzu was... something. He looked like an angry gremlin after being fed after midnight, scraggly and underweight. He was 13 years old, unneutered, and had a heart condition that rendered him unable to get the snip. In addition, he was mostly blind - an opaque cataract in one eye and something else not working in the other - and deaf as well. His name was Buddy, and he became Virginia's best little pal.

 

 

She started out by giving him the health care he hadn't received in his pre-rescue life. He had skin issues, so she bathed him weekly with a prescription shampoo, placating him for the indignity with lots of special tub-only treats. She got treatment for his heart, for his breathing, for the mysterious lumps that grew beneath his snowy-white hair. Buddy got the concierge medicine treatment, despite the fact his owner was a self-supporting college student.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he first arrived in Maine, Buddy wouldn't walk outdoors. We would carry him out, plop him on some grass, and he'd wobble about a bit before hopefully doing his business. Virginia bought him a special dog carriage - not a baby stroller, a dog carriage - so he could go out and take the air like Maurice Chevalier rolling through Paris in Gigi. With time and patience (and some visits to Granny's house in the country, where there was enough space for him to wander about in the sunshine without smacking into an obstacle) he pepped up and became quite fearless, taking off down the sidewalk at a brisk walk that left some family members chasing after, unprepared.

 

 

 

 

This dog was pampered. Oh, he was pampered. He had tiny hats. He had jammies that matched his "Mom's" He had competing Christmas and Hallowe'en outfits - both Virginia and Guest Son would buy him costumes and post online to see which got the most votes. He had a special orthopedic bed and would rip up lesser dog beds in disdain. (Or maybe they just smelled cheap.) He had a whole raft of toys designed for blind dogs that he could track down by their scent - although his favorite pastime continued to be ripping pieces of cardboard into the smallest possible pieces. He had a snug car seat that enabled him to travel safely without accidentally getting out, and if anyone else traveled in Virginia's car, well, Buddy still got the front seat. 

 

 

Like many small dogs, he loved getting floofed and cuddled, and he insisted on sleeping, not just with his humans, but over them, by wriggling his way from the side of the mattress to the pillow, and then to the top of the pillow. I got to experience this for myself on Buddy's visits to granny's house, when I would wake up with a Shih Tzu hat draped over my head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was an ambassador for the joys of adopting a senior or disabled dog, and Virginia and Guest Son never passed up a chance to let people see how much having a special needs pet brought to their lives. Visitors to their little apartment would walk in as skeptics and leave delighted.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But, of course, there's one last Visitor who comes to even the most beloved dog. Both Virginia and Guest Son were out of the apartment, but they could tell afterwards that Buddy drank a full bowl of water and then settled himself in his squishy bed, which always faced the door so he could see the change in light as his people came and went, and feel the vibration of footsteps in the hall. When Guest Son got home, he thought Buddy was asleep at first. 

 

 They brought him here to the house in the country, where we laid him to rest beneath a century-old lilac, which intertwines with wild grape and Virginia creeper. It's a good place for a little blind dog, full of marvelous smells in season. May we all be granted such an end! - all thirsts quenched, peaceful in our beds, waiting for the footfall of the One who loves us.

What We're Writing Week : Julia is scheduling and sprinting

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Everyone this week has been talking about the many jobs that come along with the title "author;" researching, editing, promotion - even teaching others (which is always also about teaching ourselves as well.) Sometimes, one of the jobs that comes along with being an author is "relearning the habit of but in chair, hands on keyboard."

As some of you may remember, my Word for the Year is DEEP WORK, because I'm devoting myself to retraining my oh-so-distractable brain to do the sort of demanding creative work I used to do without really thinking about it. I've gotten a lot of help from our own Celia Wakefield, who has worked miracles with my ability to self-organize, and I've also greatly benefited from my friend Jessica Ellicott, who really, really needs to teach a course about her "so stress free even I can do it" outlining technique and who has encouraged me to try different mind hacks for keeping myself on track and writing.

The ability to be creative is not, perhaps, a muscle, but the ability to sit in the damn chair and not get up until you've written your words for the day most certainly is. Yes, I've had good reasons to let my writing muscles get flabby over the past four or five years, but you know, none of those hold true anymore. The Maine Millennial has moved out with her dog and cat, the Sailor is safe at home in Virginia with his sweetheart, and Youngest is a college grad who is 100% self-supporting. It is past time for me to get cracking.

Photo by Brooke Staton, @mainememoriesphoto

So recently, I've tried two things that has led to great results. The first it scheduling my writing time. I know, I know, can you believe I didn't before? Now I have it set up, complete with notifications and a program that puts my phone on Do Not Distract automatically. 

The second - and this surprised me - is sprinting. From my college days, I've always been the sort of person who writes fast and well when under a deadline. The problem for me is the end-of-the-book deadline is WAY too far away, and frankly, is more of a suggestion in my case. My poor beleaguered publisher gave up keeping me on deadline about a decade ago. Even scheduling a perfectly normal three hour writing session allows me to kind of.. drift. Maybe I have time for a load of laundry?

But if the timer's on for an hour and a half, I've discovered I write. Fast. No time to linger over every word as is my tendency. No time to think and rethink every choice. Get it down, because the clock is ticking. And really, I start each day's writing with a quick pass-through of yesterday's words, so I can fix the most egregious errors then.

Is it working? Reader, it is, as you can see from this excerpt from AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY.

“Oh, my God.” Tiny raced to the window. “Oh.” She sounded as if she had just finished a five hundred meter sprint. “It's okay. It's a friend of Cal's.”

Clare joined her at the window. A fully tricked out pick up pulled sung against the downstairs. They watched as a beefy guy climbed out, ran his hand over his stubbled hair, and stared at Clare's car. He walked toward the downstairs, disappearing from view beneath the deck.

“Is he coming in?”

Tiny shook her head. “You can't get from one floor to another inside. You have to go around and through the outside door. We use it like a garage – it's got Cal's workroom and the chest freezer down there. It's not even heated.”

The man reemerged carrying a couple of small duffle bags. He slung them into his truck cab and then headed for the railroad tie stairs.

“Oh, crap.” Tiny set Rose back into her playpen.

“Should I, um, leave?”

“I don't know what he wants. Maybe he needs to use the bathroom.” Tiny opened the door and stepped onto the deck. Clare slung her diaper bag over her shoulder and followed, her hand tight on the baby carrier. “Hey, Dillon.” Tiny passed her hand through the air. “Cal's not here.”

“I can see that.” Dillon had the look of a high school linebacker running to fat, his neck overflowing his chamois shirt collar, his gut straining against the buttons. He wore a pair of wraparound sun glasses that made him look like an out-of-shape version of Robocop. “Who's this?”

Clare and Tiny looked at each other. “It's, uh, Clare?”

Clare held up the carrier. “We're having a Mommy-baby date.” She used her brightest, most brainless voice. “Rose and Ethan are both eight months old. And they're both our firsts. It's really nice to compare notes with another mom, isn't it, Tiny?”

Tiny nodded emphatically. The big guy looked back toward where he'd parked his truck. “Does Cal know you invited somebody out here?”

As subdued by her husband as she was, even Tiny bristled at that. “No, but he will when he gets home, and I honestly don't see as it's any of your business, Dillon.”

Clare did her best giggle. “I can't imagine he pays that much attention to scheduling play dates.”

He held up his hands. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I just, uh...” he focuses on Clare's parka. “You look like you're ready to leave.”

Clare glanced at Tiny. “I was about to, yes.”

“Well, you should go out first.”

“Why?”

“Uh...”

Clare wondered if she was the first person to ever question Dillon, or just the first woman. She glanced back to Tiny, and saw she was looking as stressed as she had been when Clare first arrived. “Never mind.” She hugged the other woman tight. “I hope we can do this again soon.”

Julia: Dear readers, what are your mind hacks for getting stuff done? And have you been successful in revamping old habits into new ones?

Howdy, (Virtual) Neighbor!

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING:  I'm going to be honest with you. I've spent the past week trying to move ahead with spring cleaning. Monday was taking Youngest to and from Orono for her penultimate orthodontist visit, a two and a half hour trip each way. Tuesday, meeting with my accountant (and teaching my community college class.) Wednesday, I spent a most of the day driving around southern Maine, helping one of my "foster" daughters to buy a new-to-her car. She got an amazing one, a ten year old BMW coupe with 150000 miles for five grand! Yes, vetted by a mechanic.

 Then Thursday and Friday were spent catching up on grading (and teaching another class) because the midterm grades were due at ten pm and I'm STILL not done and now I'm writing this at 11:00 on Friday evening and, in the hip phrase of a few years ago, I Just Can't.

 I particularly can't think of anything interesting or witty. Hours of explaining comma splices and independent clauses will do that to you. So instead, let's all use today as an opportunity to catch up. I'll start:

Things are going well, although obviously busy. I'm working on the next book, and though I'm not as far as I (or my agent and editor) would like, it's moving along. I haven't gotten my vaccination yet, but Maine just opened up the list to 50 year olds, so after I get the grades in, I'm going to go online and sign up at as many places as possible. 

 

The Maine Millennial, having gotten her two shots, is back to dating again, and meeting some very nice young men via Tinder, which has become THE dating marketplace, thanks to Covid. You can find out all about it, and I do mean all, every Sunday in her column for the Portland Press Herald. 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sailor is still down in Norfolk - thankfully so, because during the last cruise his ship went through the Suez canal, and I hate to think of him bottled up on either end of the CS Ever Given. He's not only back with, but is living with his delightful girlfriend Veronique, who's about to enter an intensive two year program to become a respiratory therapist. She's had the jab, and he's about to get his, so we're hoping for a family reunion when he can get leave. Maybe this spring, maybe the summer - you're never sure with the navy. They're talking about getting a dog, which I believe in this day and age is the equivalent of a betrothal contract in the 19th century. We shall see.

Youngest got an apartment last September so she didn't have to worry about the vicissitudes of the University of Maine opening and closing and opening. She's hanging fire at the moment, applying to internships without knowing if they'll be in person or virtual and considering travel abroad programs that may or may not take place. The one thing she does know is that U Maine will be opening up in person next fall, for a (please God!) normal senior year. And finally, after three years in braces and major jaw surgery, she's due to have the metal off in April! I may be more excited than she is. (She's pretty excited.) Also, after *mumblemumble* attempts, she passed her drivers test, which means she's ready to take possession of my sister's old Honda CRV. We used to pass out kids clothes back and forth, now it's cars.

 

Life in Maine continues to be just about The Way It Should Be. How are things in your neck of the woods?

No More Pencils, No More Books...

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I know you all lie to keep current on my family news, so I thought I'd give you an update. The Maine Millennial is looking for work after being corona-fired from her last job. Any suggestions for professional employment in Southern Maine or online employment anywhere gratefully accepted. The Sailor is still in Norfolk, working hard. He wants to make E-5 before his first enlistment is up in two years, so there's a lot to do. 

And I just took Youngest back to the University of Maine.

I hear you gasping. I know, believe me.  The news is full of stories about colleges and universities bravely reopening, only to face a surge of covid-19 infections. Places like University of North Carolina have welcomed students back and sent them home within a week, converting to online-only. The University of Maine is doing everything other schools are doing - testing upon arrival, mandating social distancing and cleaning everything in sight. (When we got to Youngest's room - a single - along with the usual desk, bed and chair we found a spray bottle of disinfectant, eight ounces of hand sanitizer, and a jumbo box of tissues.)

photo by Linda Coan O'Kresik, Bangor Daily News

The administration is also, like many other schools, having the students sign a pledge, with wording that's a cross between 19th century hygiene reformers and the Boy Scouts.  Like many other schools, I expect it's about as meaningful as a fart in a hurricane. Eighteen to twenty-two is not an age period known for it's cool assessment of risk-reward ratio. I was a smart and fairly mature young woman in college, and there were many times I displayed the judgment of a drunken racoon in a restaurant dumpster. I don't expect the younger generation to do much better.


Youngest and I went around and around on this for most of the summer. She had a good plan to go to Kosovo, where she had friends she could share a flat with and where she (hopefully) will be spending Spring semester. But as you may have noticed, getting into Europe is...tricky for Americans at this point. She considered staying home and taking all her classes remotely, but the chance to partake in a few in-person seminars with favorite professors tipped the balance.

The dorm has single-occupancy bathrooms!

Also, frankly, she missed her friends and wanted out of the nest. As did Guest Son, who decided to put his senior year on hold, but got a shared student apartment near campus and is looking for a job. I can't blame either of them - it's good and right to be on your own and with peers at this point in their lives. 

So off they went, kit, clothes, bedding, boxes and multiple masks for each of them. I promised Youngest I wouldn't look at the New York Times coronavirus outbreak statistics more than once a day. (I just checked the headline. More than 1,000 cases at the University of South Carolina. I may take up day drinking.) 

 


The thing is, as the chancellor of the U Maine system said, if it can work anywhere, it will work in Maine, where we've consistently been one of the three lowest states for community transmission since March. We're rural, geographically remote (Orono is closer to Quebec City than it is to New York) and have been doing pretty well on mask wearing and social distancing.

 

Yes, her masks always coordinate with her outfits.

Of course, the converse is true as well - if it can't work in Maine, it can't work anywhere. Half the student body of UMO (as the flagship campus is known) comes from out of state. So I'll be hoping and praying and not badgering Youngest and Guest Son with texts and phone calls asking them if they're wearing their masks and avoiding parties. I hope it will work, and that they won't have to come home before Thanksgiving.

 
But I'm keeping the beds made, just in case.

Do you have or know of anyone struggling with at home versus in-person learning, dear readers?

A Day on a Lake in Maine

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: If you were at the blog this past Sunday, you got to see the delicious dinner my family had at Celia and Victor Wakefield's. Today, I thought I'd show you some of the rest of the day. Maine's lakes are truly magical, and if you can't get to one this year, as so many can't, you can at least experience one vicariously. (The fact this give me a chance to show off my beautiful daughters is just incidental.

Here are Youngest and the Maine Millennial taking a very small amount of sun at the end of the dock. We all slather on 50 SPF, and I hope you do the same when you're outdoors!

After I took the picture above, they began singing, "Sisters, Sisters" from White Christmas. You may know the lyrics: "Never were there such devoted sisters; When a certain gentleman arrived from Rome, she wore the dress, and I stayed home!"

Youngest and Guest Son, her friend from university who's living with us (and being the most amazing help around my ridiculously large and overgrown property.) This picture of them on the paddleboard is deceiving - there was a lot of shrieking, splashing, and falling off happening between photo shoots.



Here's a 12-second film clip I took to send to the Sailor, stuck in Norfolk, VA for the foreseeable future. The Department of Defense is being very restrictive for active duty military - no traveling further than 150 miles from base, no crowds of more than 10 people, no going into bars, restaurants, etc. It makes for a rather straitened life, but I'm glad for it. He just found out his command is allowing family to visit without quarantining, so we're hoping to go down and see him near the end of July. I wonder how few rest stops we can manage?

Guest Son on the paddleboard. I honestly think Youngest might have snapped and done away with the Maine Millennial and me à la Lizzie Borden if not for having a friend and co-conspirator here.

It's a good thing to grow up in Maine.

 

 After five o'clock there are adult beverages for the adults, and ginger ale and seltzer for the non-drinkers. I had a Pimm's in a sturdy mason jar. It felt extremely Instagrammable, and since I now actually have an Insta account, I slapped it up there!

Photo by Celia Wakefield

The best way to end a long, active day - visiting with friends as the sun slips behind the trees. Knowing we had those sesame noodles waiting for us made it a lot easier to climb up the hill to the house.

How about you, dear readers? Are you finding some special spots to escape to during this long, strange summer?  

Son Ahoy!

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Those of you following the stories about my family life may remember how, back in March, I bid farewell to the Sailor, who was headed out for a seven and a half month deployment (formerly known as a cruise) in the Persian Gulf. Twelve days ago, he got home, along with over 300 other crew members of the USS Gonzalez. 

We didn't see him man the rails - he was working belowdeck.

 

The Smithie, Youngest and me waiting.

 

The Sailor's sisters and his lovely girlfriend, Veronique.

 

 

His work team won the Rocky Balboa Award (I swear I'm not making this up), given to the team with the best performance record within the division with the best performance record. The prize? FIRST OFF THE SHIP.

                                      

These two were VERY happy to see each other again.  There's more lettuce on the Sailor's chest now - he was awarded several commendations during the deployment. Not that I'm bragging. (I'm totally bragging.)             

                                      We have a family tradition of Silly Sibling photos. 

Because we're a media-savvy family, you can also read the Maine Millennial's column about our trip and the homecoming at the Portland Press Herald, and see Veronique and me interviewed by WVEC 13News Now:


 I'm the one with zero makeup and puffy eyes. I'm not a pretty crier, and BOY did I bawl like a little baby.

                                   Welcome home, Sailor!