My cousin Margaret is visiting Maine from her home near Washington, D.C. She drove up on Friday and arrived at the cottage she’s renting late that same evening. She invited me over for breakfast on Sunday morning.
She’s staying in the Marrtown section of Georgetown. Wikipedia says Georgetown is a “popular tourist destination,” but it never seems like that when I’m there. It was raining so hard on my Sunday morning drive along Route 127, I could hardly see the road. The few tourists motoring about the peninsula were passing me in the opposite direction; when it rains on your last day of vacation, you might as well get an early start home.
Margaret and I drank steaming cups of rich, dark coffee and ate quiche. The two hours I’d planned to spend turned to three and we got “caught up” past, present and future. It was hard to believe we hadn’t visited for two years.
On the way home, I stopped at the Georgetown Country Store for lobster, tonight’s dinner.
It’s Monday morning again, with the never-ending-ness of the week’s toil on the horizon. Lobster eaten, the shell’s boiled down for soup stock. It’s overcast again this morning, the air heavy with humidity. The whole house smells like a lobster cooker. It smells like summer.
There were a few surprises in the garden this Monday morning.
The Monday morning blues.