Generally, my ghosts are good ones. Standing in the kitchen selecting a mug for coffee on a chilly, late-summer afternoon here at our log cabin in Boothbay Harbor, I am thoughtful. A blue spatter-ware cup from the Southport Yacht Club? One of the earthy, handmade pottery mugs given to us by a guest who has her own kiln? Or maybe just one of the plain ones that we’ve used forever. Somehow, my choice matters.
Until this morning, we’ve had a full house lasting nearly all summer, with children and grandchildren in residence or staying in another cabin nearby. Our days were busy with the vacation activities of Maine that we all look forward to during long winter months elsewhere. Sailing, swimming, walking, reading, working on puzzles, enjoying the dock and the porch, cooking and eating good food. Two grandchildren have had regular summer jobs, and another, the youngest, was immersed in sailing lessons for the entire day.
There were rough spots, of course, but we managed well.
For me, the mom who went out on a limb 40 years ago to buy the cabin, it’s what I had hoped might happen.
So while I subscribe to, “I’m happy when they come and also happy when they go,” the leave-taking is complicated. I am delighted that my husband and I are again a twosome at our beloved Maine cabin. But whenever the last car drives off and I go back inside, the haunting begins.
Always, I walk alone through each room, to accustom myself to the newly emptied spaces. Even as I look for items left behind, the ghostly echoes of a summer well spent become more specific. There’s an extra dog ball under the daybed in the living room. My dog will miss his yellow Lab companion of these weeks in Maine.
The puzzle table is empty, with the last puzzle finished and back in its box. Scraps from the cottage industry of making bags out of old sails — started several years ago by the older grandchildren — are piled neatly on another long table in the living room. This year they have branched into wine bottle gift bags as well as yoga mat carriers, and they’ve made money selling their wares at a local craft fair. I will carry my version of their purse-sized tote long into the fall.
A well-worn lifejacket of the grandson who took sailing lessons needs hosing off now that he’s finished for the season. While I do it, I remember his solo weeks with us before his parents arrived and my daily carpool trips back to the little yacht club nearby where our children had learned to sail years ago. Luckily, several mothers were happy to take him along for bingo night and the evening ice cream social, giving me time off. Still, keeping the connection to that yacht club is a part of the summer I treasure.
Yes, there’s more: The party napkins on the hutch bring back the celebration of a college graduation, and a half-used bag of powdered sugar in the kitchen calls to mind a granddaughter’s fabulous coconut cake to mark an August birthday. Leftover limes in the fridge will miss their calling for gin and tonics, with evenings becoming too cool for drinks on the porch.
Eventually, thank goodness, my gaze shifts. Basil I brought in from the garden is bushy and fragrant; it will make excellent pesto to take home to Vermont. The jars of blueberry jam we produced last week will also be sweet with memories of Maine.
And as I choose my coffee mug just now — one of the plain ones that has always been here — I pull myself back into shape. I do love having the whole family together and I ache when they leave. As I sip my coffee, still standing in the kitchen with late afternoon sun streaming in over the sink, I remind myself that change is the nature of everything.
And, most important, I awaken to gratitude for future days in Maine. Days that are quiet and simple, as we live surrounded by woods and a stone’s throw from the ocean.
With luck, we will return in the fall, to more fully savor the quiet. And by then, the ghosts are always gone.
Mary K. Otto lives in Norwich.