On the northeastern-most point of the continental United States of America lies a small hamlet of fishermen, lobstermen, vacationg-oers, and regular ol’ people. “Take the bridge ovah to Canada” they say, while others suggest “go and get yahself a lobstah roll.” Lubec is a town where people live and breathe all things Maine.
After a brief hiatus in digitally-archiving the written documentation of lived-in experiences, known to some as “Blogging,” the author resumes the story on a pleasant, summer evening stroll down Johnson St, hand in hand with his cherished wife, en-route to dinner at a restaurant in the small downtown of Lubec, ME.
Johnson St hugs the northern shoreline of Lubec, looking down upon the small fleet of sailboats, fishing boats, and islands that dot the waters of Johnson Bay. The street is mostly vacant aside from a number of parked cars with Massachusetts and New York license plates, and the occasional traffic of local residents and tourists. Traveling north on Johnson St has a person appreciating the sights and smells of plentiful beach rose along the street to the right, and at this time of day a beautiful sunset to the left.
The author and his wife deeply enjoy each others’ company and consider each other to be best friends. As best friends do, engaging discussion is had, but silence can also be appreciated together. Having just begun the descent of the hill over by Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant, the happy couple, who happen to be celebrating their 12th wedding anniversary, can see two young lads up ahead, off in the distance.
The two young lads appear to be of middle school or early high school age, and are clearly enjoying their summer vacation in each others’ company. The lads are aimlessly walking around town that night, doing what youngsters do, and doing a damn good job of it.
One of the lads, outfitted in matching shorts and tee shirt of varying tones of pink, is walking on the eastern-most part of the road, closest to the beach roses. The lad seems to have a sudden burst of silly, youthful energy, and begins moving erratically. As he approaches a larger section of flora in his path, he begins making motions as though he would like to either poke or karate chop the plant. His arm extends and his hand moves towards the leaves and flowers that are there. Still several hundred feet away, it is clear that the youngster in pink is saying something to his friend as he continues to prod the plant, yet it is not clear exactly what the youngster is saying. Only soft murmurs can be heard. That is, until the lad suddenly emits a loud yowling howl and can be seen quickly jumping away and clutching his hand. Over the soft splash of the gentle crashing waves, his voice can be heard yelling, “Oh fuck! I just got stung by a bee! Ow!!”
The lad continues a celebratory dance sequence of shaking his hand vigorously, then clutching it, while taking short but energized steps forward. Perhaps the youngster is trying to impress his friend, or some apparent but invisible desired mate, as peacocking youngsters often do. While his dance conveys a victory of some sort, it also appears to be marked by a more sombre yet urgent tone. The lad’s dance continues for about a minute until the two lads jointly turn left and move up a hill towards a rock perch, where they go to sit and contemplate their shared experiences and observations of life as they know it.
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