For those enthralled by my last post recounting older son’s visit, hold tight for this tale of my younger son’s trip home after completing yet another year of college.  (Taylor is affectionately known as a five-year-plan undergrad, meandering from Bard, to India, back to Bard, over to NYU, another return to Bard.)  On May 23 he drove into Belfast with his car crammed with dirty clothes and other detritus of dorm life; after two days of shifting through all that stuff and a small effort at organization, he announced, “Let the games begin!”.

On the road again....

Taylor could be a poster boy of what to do in and around Belfast.  Kayaking in the Passy River (actually the Passagassawakeag River, but who can say that?), and biking south through Northport and Bayview with a couple of new friends met while kayaking; Bay Wrap on Main Street sells a terrific booklet on biking trails in the area fashioned by Hartdale Maps.  One night we caught a just-released movie at our very own Colonial Theatre; we saw Robin Hood – please check Rotten Tomatoes as I am trying not to be a movie critic, but I won’t see that one again.  No movie night is complete without a huge shake or sundae or, to be totally the modern cosmopolitan, blood orange gelato at Scoops ice cream shop (35 Main Street).

Just the claw!

And no trip to Maine is complete without a lobster – so on the last day, brilliant with sunshine, over we went to Young’s Lobster Pound and my baby boy ate a three pound lobster!  Now, I am a city girl and I have always heard that large lobsters have tough meat – not so, at least from what I could tell from the two measly bites Taylor would let me have.  (Back to the city girl thing – we don’t eat lunch).

Mom and son

Taylor left the other day, back to Bard for a summer job.  He said with a big hug that coming home was like going on vacation.  Guess so.

later, Diana

The White House Inn

Mother’s Day came a week late for me this year.  My older son, Walker, flew up from Washington DC on May 14 to spend the weekend.  Walker is married, working and attending grad school —  he is also 32 years of age which gives me the heebie jeebies.  When he reached the 30 year milestone, I said, “You are now my younger brother.”

Where's Walker? Lost in the rocks at Acadia.

The next day, bright and early around 10 am, we headed to Acadia National Park.  We hiked the Great Head Trail, taking in glorious views of the Atlantic Ocean, and ascended Cadillac Mountain via the wimpy route (by car).  No matter what the age of one’s children, the “Why?” question never dies.  Why is the name Acadia, number one son asked.  I responded that I knew but I needed to tell him later. The answer: an Italian explorer on a 1524 voyage to the New World named present-day Nova Scotia and much of New England Archadia which is Latin, of course, and means something to do with beautiful trees.  Later in the 16th century, the “r” began to disappear, likely due to map copyist errors; and the change stuck.  The area became a US National Park in 1916; the name Acadia National Park was bestowed in 1929.  Now, that is another story.

Anticipating that lobster!

The much too-short visit ended at Young’s Lobster Pound overlooking Belfast Bay.  As Walker who insists on no egg yokes and little red meat tore that crustacean apart, I asked him if he knew lobster compared to other seafood contains prodigious amounts of cholesterol.  Moms still know a thing or two!

later, Diana

The White House Inn

It was a dark and rainy night….. well, dark and windy and the location was Camden, Maine.  I joined a group of intrepid ghost seekers lead by The Lady in the Red Cloak who makes her way to various Maine towns giving tours – the theme of the tours is haunted places, with a good dose of obscure history thrown in.    As we made our way through Camden’s back streets, I learned that of the 50 states, Maine holds the distinction of being the 13th when it comes to UFO sightings.

As we stood before the Camden Carriage House, The Lady explained that a tradition of sorts was to throw old shoes between the walls of houses in an effort to “kick the devil out”! .  At this particular house, several pairs of children’s shoes were found.  Next door, a ghost resides – this was the one who saw the UFO and recorded it in her journal – when she was alive of course.

The Lady in the Red Cloak said she does not generally talk about malevolent ghosts; so if you are looking for a “spirited” evening with no scary after effects, try one of these tours.

boo for now, Diana

The White House Inn

Something for the sweet tooth!

My pals and I were talking recently about candy cigarettes, more precisely about their disappearance.  (Remember as a kid balancing one of these sticks between your lips and trying to look like James Dean or Lauren Bacall?)  We decided that the intensive, years-campaign against tobacco cigarettes had pretty well made candy cigarettes a PC taboo.  Well, think again!

The other day I was buying my weekly stash of chocolate candy from The Chocolate Drop Candy Shoppe in downtown Belfast for our Inn guests – after all, if there is no chocolate on the pillow, you might as well be camping.  A young lad before me at the register was buying a small pile of sugary favorites, and lo and behold I spied a box of Kings candy cigarettes (to be sure, they are now called candy sticks, but what is in the name of a rose?).  Aghast, and amused, I bought a box and, indeed, inside were ten white candy sticks with a pink end.  Perusing the box, like I do everything I buy for the place of origin, I was aghast and only aghast to find “Made in the USA”.

For yummy chocolate truffles and other delights, a visit to this shop is a must – 60 Main Street, Belfast, ME.

Ciao, Diana

The White House Inn

When we moved to Belfast over a year ago , a good friend gave me a CD entitled, “The Best of Bert and I… Celebrating 50 Years of Stories from Down East” (2008).  This disc did not get played immediately.  However, on a recent return drive from a visit to Washington DC, I became very tired of The Eagles and Roy Orbison (well, except Pretty Woman) after about six hours.  Rummaging through the glove compartment, I rediscovered “Bert and I” and popped it in the player.  And what a hoot!

Robert Bryan and Marshall Dodge have been dishing out dead-pan Yankee humor since the late 1950s.   Here are a few lines from the skit, “At the Graveyard.”

Bert:  Sorry to hear that you’re burying your pa.

Digger:  Got to, he’s dead.

Bert: They say he was a self-made man.

Digger:  If he was, it sure relieves the All Mighty of considerable responsibility.

Bert: Isn’t that grave a little too shallow?

Digger:  Maybe, but he ain’t never gonna get out.

Bert:  How come this graveyard has no fence around it?

Digger: Why put a fence around when them inside can’t get out, and them outside aren’t in any hurry to get in.

Some of my other favorites are “The Pet Turkey”, “Directions” and “No News”  If you find that XM comedy is just not funny, buy this CD and give yourself a treat.

later, Diana

The White House Inn

When I was a little girl, my mother sometimes used the phrase, “His name is mud.”  Of course, I thought the person to which she was referring was dirty and icky and caked with that stuff of which swamps are made.  Later, I discovered, I was wrong.  The expression is, “His name is Mudd” with Mudd referring to that doctor who assisted the assassin of President Lincoln on his attempted escape, and meaning scurrilous, despicable, wicked.

Now, mud in Maine is with a small “m” and, indeed, means dirt mixed with water.  Mud season in Maine is March and April when all the ice and snow are melting and doing the woo-hoo dance with ground soil.  This is not the time and place to wear your Gucci heels.

Here is a word for you.  Tipicditocreps is a scientific term applied to a clay-type soil that is widespread in Maine.  Samantha Langley-Turnbaugh is a professor of Environmental Science and Policy at the University of Southern Maine. She says certain properties of the clay favor production of the mud, unlike other soil types.  ”You get mud when the water can’t infiltrate into the soil fast enough; if you have very sandy soil water can run off so you never have mud. You need water staying on the surface of the soil, if run-off is greater than infiltration, that’s when you get mud.”

Thus endth the lesson.

Diana

The White House Inn

I am constantly amazed what my liberal arts education (and lots of it) never taught me.  Case in point: maple syrup.  Growing up in a large family of five children, maple syrup came to us in a large glass container with the words Log Cabin or Aunt Jemima emblazoned across the top – it was dark, thick and sweet and tasted great on Bisquick pancakes.  To be honest, I continued this tradition with my own children.  Well, I have since learned that this goop was not maple syrup.

Maple syrup comes from maple trees, surprise, surprise, with the best variety being the sugar maple.  You bore a hole into the bark, and attach a tube into which flows the sap — this procedure is called tapping into the tree.  The speed of sap flow depends on the weather; if it’s too cold, nothing will flow.  Recently, in late February, a friend living in Searsport (the next town north of Belfast), tapped his sugar maples and the sap flowed – a good sign that spring is just about here.  Once you collect 40 gallons, you slow boil the sap until it reduces to one gallon (this is not a typo) and that is your maple syrup.  The first tappings of the season result in a light amber colored syrup; the later the tapping, the darker the finished product.   BTW, this ratio is why real maple syrup is relatively expensive: it takes a lot of sap to make a small amount. BTW2, real maple is loaded with zinc and manganese, two critical elements for your immune system.

If you stay with us here in Belfast, be certain you will be served real maple syrup with breakfast.  Alas, my sons are still demanding Aunt Jemima – I failed as a mother.

later, Diana

The White House Inn

Apparently, Maine was once a chicken mecca. Then a grizzly guy claimed that it takes a tough bird to make a tender chicken, and most of our feathered friends migrated south to Delaware and other places.  Well, that left all these empty chicken coops and cries that the sky is falling, the sky is falling.  Alas, Mainers are an inventive lot and  I have discovered how impressive this inventiveness is by the transformation of chicken coops.

Morphing #1.  My car is a 1990 Jaguar Vanden Plas – black, of course, and with a scant 90,000 miles.   When we lived in  Washington, I never drove the Jag beyond the beltway – after all, it could break down and I did not want to be too far from her mechanic – and of course driving in the snow was a huge no no.   When we moved to Belfast, I fretted over what to do with the Jag for eight months of the year when snow is a possibility.  Three miles from our Inn lives a delightful man who once raised chickens but now is retired; he rents out space in the his gigantic coop for winter storage for boats, special machinery and vintage cars like an old Jag.

Morphing #2. Halfway between Ellsworth and Bucksport on Route 1 sits the largest edifice of a chicken coop you have ever seen.  Not surprisingly it is called The Big Chicken Barn, but surprisingly it houses three floors of antiques and used books – a veritable bonanza for the bargain hunter and the deal finder.  Santiago and I went today, spent four hours and found some real deals — not that I needed these items but that’s not the point.

Later, Diana

The White House Inn

Several friends have remarked that any time I am cruising on Interstate 95 between New Hampshire and Maine, I should be sure to stop at this big wine store sitting right on the border – well, a few feet inside New Hampshire.  Turns out that New Hampshire has no tax on wine and liquor (how did that get overlooked in the constant search for government revenues?).  Well, I haven’t stopped yet — mostly I am trying to get home to Belfast and the only stop with enough “pull power” is a Starbucks.

And I reason, why stop at this mega-store when I can walk a few blocks from our Inn and enter the eclectic and fascinating world of the Belfast Co-op with its amazing collection of wines?  Ron, the wine steward, is a terrific guy – and he knows his stuff.  Recently, Ron introduced us to Dynamite, a vineyard from California, which produces incredible Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon; for the white winers, Dynamite has a wonderful Chardonnay.  Guests who stay with us rave about these wines, and more often then not make a stop at the Co-op.  Mega-store or Co-op?  Really no choice.

ciao, Diana

The White House Inn

Right after Christmas break, a couple of beautiful snow storms dumped incredible amounts of that white stuff all over Maine.   My sons are grown now (well, almost as number two is on the six-year plan for undergraduate work) but I can’t help feeling empathy for all those parents with school age children and no school in all this snow! I seem to recall in my earlier parenting days that January was the time for thinking about what to do with the children in summer, and camps were the answer.  And sleep-away camps were the best, excuse me, I meant to say “the bomb”.

Most states have summer camps but Maine is truly special — spectacular summer weather and a pristine, rugged outdoors.  Close to Belfast is The Maine Arts Camp in Unity, and Hidden Valley Camp in Freedom — how can you go wrong with camps located in Unity and Freedom?  BTW, both towns are near Liberty.  The secret is to drop the kids off and then go to “camp”  yourself along the mid-coast.  You get my drift, a little mini-vacation — and, remember, if there’s no chocolate on the pillow it’s really camping!

ciao, Diana

The White House Inn