Gram Gives Me The Fingers, Then Gets Drunk

FRIDAY

It was gray yesterday, but actually raining when we wake Friday morning. With no sign of letting up. We share a treat from Modern Pastry, which looks like something I had in Italy that was delicious. Looks like, being the operative word here. I wish I would have bought extra canollis instead. Harumph.

Our first stop this morning is the Salem Witch Museum. This is hands-down the weirdest exhibit I've been to. You are guided into a large, oval-shaped theatre with benches along the walls, and in front of that, a row of both benches and chairs on either side of the room. Then, twenty feet above your head, individual vignettes are illuminated one-by-one, telling the story of how the hysteria began, through how it ended. The problem is, if the vignette is on your side of the room, you can't see anything. With roughly half a presentation under our belts, we are ushered into room number two,. There are actual exhibits there, including an extensive timeline on the wall. But you're not left to explore on our own. you are guided through by some sort of docent, and she skips over quite a bit. Unless you read while she talks, you don't get to see everything -- because as soon as she's done, you are shown the door. Thank you, goodbye. The best part of the visit was the pic I took of Gram I took in the gift shop.

Wicked witch of the octogenarians.

We haven't had good internet for days, so we stop at a coffee shop where I can do some deadline-driven NPR work. I feel bad having Gram just sit there, but she assures me she enjoys people watching. When I'm telling Adam about it later via the Bluetooth in the car, I say something about her doing well for the hour we were there. She makes it a point to tell him it was two hours, sticking up her fingers to make the point. I'm giving Adam the play by play, during which she's adamant about exactly which fingers she held up.

I did not flip off my granddaughter.

The whole concept of driving down the road while talking to someone hundreds of miles away -- as if they were in the car with us -- is pretty novel for her. As a kid, Gram used an outhouse and had to carry water into the house from the well outside. Now, she's signing for her purchases on an iPad and this disembodied voice is helping us find a good place to eat lunch.

Today, we're heading toward Portland, Maine. As we creep along our scenic route, I spy a submarine on the side of the road. The U.S.S. Albacore, land locked near Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I look at Gram and ask her if she's ever been inside a submarine. She shakes her head. Me, either, so I pull in. She's extremely hesitant. Not only is it freaking pouring, but she thinks she'll have to crawl in through the hatch on top and climb down a ladder. Even I'm not that cruel, and having seen the entrance cut into the side, tell her I'll go check it out.

I am assured by the cashier, as I pay for our tickets -- and an umbrella, that we will not have an issue. There is nothing more than an 18-inch step up.

He fails to mention the doors.

I've seen movies with submarines, but nothing can really prepare you for trying to fit a completely inflexible senior citizen through seven of those damn things. Yet again, this woman completely amazes me. While people half her age would have balked, she plunges forward, lifting the front leg up and through, reaching back to bend the left leg to follow. One at a time through these hatches, all the while admiring her surroundings like a little kid. My uncle, a Navy boy, will never believe it. Hence this video evidence.

She is a total rock star.

We're on the phone with my uncle as we cross into Maine. It's not far from there to Meg and Mark's place in Hollis Center, where we are staying this evening. They live on a small farm with goats, chickens, two kids (though their eldest is away at college) and four dogs, ranging from large (boxer lab mixes) to teensy-tiny (a Chihuahua that Meg calls "Pickle".) The farm house, about 140 years old, seems like a labyrinth with rooms off of rooms. I worry Grammy will get lost coming back from the bathroom in the middle of the night. Every detail of the place is charming, from the thriving houseplants, to the floral wallpaper and original wood beams in our bedroom. We decide to eat leftovers, and since the Internet isn't working, curl up to watch a movie together -- Pixar's "Up." It's absolutely adorable.

The internet comes back on, so I stay up a bit late to work to catch up on the blog. 


SATURDAY

We get up early and after Gram comes back from the bathroom, I head in that direction: through the glass door into the dining room, right turn into living room, left turn through the double glass doors, past the large mud room on the left (which doubles as
Meg's jewelry studio) and the stairs on the left, through another door into the kitchen and then left. Whew. Noticing Mark in the kitchen, I wander in to say good morning. He offers coffee, and I sit down to chat for a few while Meg joins us.

They are delightful. Mark owns his own carpentry business, while Meg has several jobs: U.S. Air, L.L. Bean and Airbnb. And a Mom! Then there's the farm. They sell some of the eggs to people they know, though Mark has just butchered several (a job Meg refuses to do, which reminds me that I will soon have to dispatch a lobster by boiling it alive.) She has plans to eventually make goat cheese, which I am dying to learn how to do. I envy the farm life, but can see that it isn't easy. They are very busy people, so we appreciate their time and the nice conversation.

Even more, we appreciate the fresh eggs that Meg uses to make our breakfast -- Gram raves about them several times during the day!

We head into Portland and the "Flea For All" I read about in one of the tour books Meg has for guests. It's awesome. I buy a few things: an apron made out of vintage material (for me), a gorgeous stoneware bowl (for me) and a fabulous three-tiered wire basket (for me). I'm seeing a trend here, and I like it.

Then it's off to the Portland Head Light and museum. It's small, but interesting. It's getting really cold, though, so I'm bundling up Gram to try and keep her warm. We head back to the car.  

Next, it's off to Allagash Brewery, where we are disappointed to find their next tour is overbooked. We wait around hoping some don't show up, and feel lucky when we finagle our way into the tour, which happens to include a tasting. Yum. I'm glad we both love beer. I get two bottles to go, planning to cozy up to Hugh Malone (their new IPA) tonight, and bring the other one home. Grammy gets shnockered. Funny, because she says there wasn't any alcohol in the beer.

"It was basically non-alcoholic beer -- only like 4% or something," she says.

Clearly she forgets that there were four, two with more than 7% each, and one with 11%.

After the tour, she tells our guide a story about her parents in Chicago during prohibition. Apparently, they decided to brew their own beer, but since they didn't know what they were doing, as the beer fermented, the bottle tops kept popping off. Worried their neighbors would hear and turn them in, they put it all in the bathtub and covered it with blankets.
 

We stop at Day's Crabmeat and Lobster for our first Maine lobster rolls. Pricey, but delicious. I could get used to this. Then it's off to Freeport, where I am less than impressed by the prices at the L.L. Bean outlet, but floored by the fact that I run into a friend from DC -- a former NPR colleague -- outside the store. It's a good reminder that I'm overdue for dinner with Alex. Small world. It makes me think of the time when Mom and I went on a cruise while I was in high school that my Mom's second-cousin just happened to be on, too.

It's a long drive from there to the house in Prospect Harbor -- about three hours. I've brought a bunch of music I think Gram will like -- Nat King Cole, Etta James and more -- and we sing along on the way. She actually tears up a few times. When I ask why, she says it reminds her of the past. Of my Grandfather.

We pretty much make a beeline for our destination, stopping only for gas and coffee. We arrive after dark.

Grandma is just tickled pink when she hears the ocean. I walk her out onto the deck, and though we can't see anything, we can hear the surf crashing against the rocks. I unload the car and put some pasta on to boil. We rummage around for a lobster pot to make sure our dinner plans for tomorrow will come to fruition. I plan to murder my first crustacean.

I make a fire and we sit down to eat, thumbing through the travel pamphlets for ideas on what we might want to do tomorrow. 

Though she has the opportunity to sleep in her own bedroom, she asks if I will stay with her.

My heart grows three sizes.