Journals of a soggy Maine vacation -- part four

(Wednesday, June 28 — about 10am)

The mist is creeping up from the bay, shrouding the campsites in a heavy damp blanket that mutes the distant boat horns of the lobstermen as they go about tending their traps. The three of us are sitting on a bench, Laurie and Hannah reading, I waiting for a particular grey bird to alight nearby so that I might photograph it. It was sticking close by until the camera came out, and now has gone into hiding.



Yesterday was the one day of our stay with no significant rain, but a brisk wind that kept the tarp flapping and crackling all night. Sleep came only with difficulty, but finally we drifted off in our noisy but still dry shelter. It was a sound that woke me up — something that just wasn't right — to find Hannah peering through the netting at a grey catbird that had found its way under the tarp, and was now trapped between the tarp and the tent. It flew from one side to the other, sounding a piteous Greap! when its escape was arrested by the plastic. It had tried to fly over the tent, succeeding only in leaving brown spots of mud on the taffeta. When I finally got my eyes to focus, mud wasn't the first substance that came to mind when a bird was concerned, but we have officially determined that mud it shall be — even if it isn't.

We tried herding it around the tent but to no avail. Finally we unstaked a back corner of the tarp and lifted it up, hoping that the bird would recognize the path to freedom and leave. It took an awfully long time, but just as I was ready to give up and try something else, it burst past and left. It didn't even pause to say thanks or goodbye.

My tentmates are getting anxious to take off and do something a bit more entertaining than waiting for the bird to reappear, so I'll pack up the camera for now. That should be all it takes to bring him back.



— It was. But I can unpack quickly when required.

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We had supper in Portland — a chain restaurant called Romano's Macaroni Grill. We had no idea what to expect, but I was curious to see how they keep the pasta from falling between the bars. It took about ten minutes to be seated, but we hardly noticed the delay as we watched a mildly hyper fellow with shaved head apply the final touches to the dishes before they were hustled off to the tables. Constant frenetic motion, applying sauces and garnish, and a brief dance of pain after unthinkingly grabbing a platter that had just come out from the broiler. It would have been hard to tear us away from the spectacle, but we were pretty hungry. The food was good, but the entertainment value was much greater than we bargained for, especially when a man at the next table was serenaded in Italian (I suppose) by the staff. Apparently when it's your birthday you get a special red napkin and are required to twirl it above your head as they sing. It's a solid motivation to be a neat eater: everyone else gets to see whatever mess you have made and gets a chance to wear it if you twirl hard enough.

Spent some after-dinner time at the Borders book store across the parking lot, enjoying the laziness, browsing and lounging around. Near the back of the store I spotted one of those ubiquitous yellow and black Dummies books:



I can only hope that its target audience is patients, not doctors.