 |
| The Bubbles from Jordan Pond (photo by Melanie Hall) |
I waved good-bye to my four-year-old niece and my mom as they pulled out of the parking lot and headed to the airport and back to California. It had been a nice week with filled with lobster cookouts, skipping rocks, ice cream on the Village Green, gossip, and the laughter that comes after old ghosts are drawn out of closets long left open by families who know such things don't matter. An "accident" across the bay that left one lobsterman dead left the town abuzz about motives and the quiet "war" going on over there, while the tourists and locals alike still marvelled that such a small town as Bar Harbor could have as great of a fireworks display as what had been seen on the Fourth of July. I had drinks with "BEC" and "Wonderwoman" the night before they left town, and when we parted, after taking a gentle stroll down a blustery, chilly, dark, and peaceful Shore Path (my favorite place in the whole world), I looked forward to the climbing weekend ahead of me.
