A Maine Homecoming

This summer’s adventure begins in a place that’s always had a hold on Terri and me—Maine. Maine has the distinction of having the slogan, "The Way Life Should Be." Maine has long been a destination for folks, drawn to its ocean shore in July, leaf peeping in October, and snowy ski slopes in February. The license plate identifies Maine as "Vacationland."

Maine’s license plates have boasted the word "Vacationland” since 1936

We are flying from Portland (PDX) to Portland (PWM) Saturday (Aug 2) to visit my mom as we celebrate (a little early) her 90th birthday—a milestone worth the trip alone. Mom lives in a cozy apartment above the garage at my sister's home, where we're staying, an unofficial base of operations for this visit. Just down the road from there is Danville, where Allen grew up.

Maine has a rugged charm that’s hard to explain but easy to feel. It’s the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you—quiet rolling hills, hardy forests, and an unforgettable rocky coast. If you count the tidal shoreline—its countless inlets, bays, and over 3,000 offshore islands—the coast stretches to a whopping 3,478 miles. Maine holds the geographical oddity of being the only U.S. state to border just one other state—New Hampshire. The rest of the border is all ocean and Canada, which somehow fits its independent spirit.

Inland Maine is full of small towns and back roads. "Ayuh." Interstate 95 is the main throughway. Once you get off the highway, there will be a lot of left and rights to get where you would like to go. As the saying goes in Bangor, "yah can’t get theyah from heah."

There are 65 historical lighthouses still standing along Maine's rugged coastline, islands, and inlets.

After Allen wrapped up his time in the Air Force in 1981, we traded the wide-open wheat fields of Kansas for the rugged beauty of the Pine Tree State of Maine. It was a homecoming for him—back to familiar stomping grounds—while Terri faced the uncharted terrain of chilly winters and neighbors a tad less chatty than Midwestern folks. She took it all in stride with quiet grit and grace. Our first child, Zachary, is the only one of our family born in Maine, Portland to be exact. Allen hails from Connecticut, Terri from Kansas and the other five children are from New Hampshire.

Coming back here is like slipping into a well-worn L. L. Bean flannel shirt. The coastline still stirs something in us—those rocky shores and salt-heavy breezes have a way of settling the soul. The mountains are softer here than Alaska’s dramatic peaks, worn down by time but no less majestic. We often think of Maine as Alaska on a smaller scale—same frontier feel, just with fewer moose and more lobster rolls.

Speaking of which—we look forward to enjoying the seafood, as one must. Allen’s first job was at a seafood restaurant, The Village Inn, first as a dishwasher, then a cook. Lobsters were just part of the routine back then. Now? They’re a celebration. There are also whoopie pies, Maine’s unofficial sweet treat.

Maine is filled with memories. Allen’s childhood and Terri’s foray into New England life. The older we get, the more we realize how much the people and places of Maine took part in shaping us.

It’s home to family. And this week, it’s home to us again. More adventures to come.

We have a street named after us in Auburn, Maine (lol)