New England Youth and Zeal

Some people go to Maine for lobster.  A much smaller crowd goes to Maine to swim.  And then some people go there for the outlet stores in Kittery.   I didn't really have any of the above in mind when we made the trek, this past weekend - I just wanted to be with the fam', and I like Maine....  Amy was more in the food-and-shopping camp, Ian in the swimming camp.  But Daniel is a boy of many enthusiasms.  And the concept of "seasonal" pastimes had no bearing on his, or Ian's, agenda for the outing.

So first we made the requisite hajj to Kittery, where our income was systematically transferred to the  Swedish economy, through a racket known as the Hanna Anderssen Outlet, in exchange for several bags of children's clothing in bold, colorful stripes you normally only see on youngsters with names like Yngve and Ingmar and Ingrid.

When we first got to the beach - already in the early evening (this was a p.m. jaunt), Amy had fantasies about our stopping at some beach-side seafood stand after a quick wade in the water, so that he could have a lobster dinner.  However, after she put bathing suits on the boys - what was she thinking?! - so that they could dip their toes into the water, the agenda shifted.

I didn't change into my bathing suit because, after all, it was May in Maine.  Nobody swims in Maine during the month of May (the very sound of it is like silly poetry).  In fact, not too many people swim in Maine at all.  And as we drove along York Beach, we didn't see anybody swimming.  Maybe a few waders.  But nobody in bathing suits - certainly nobody up to their waists or torso in the water.  So we didn't put much money in the meter at the beach parking lot - no need to, for just a dip into the waters and perhaps a short visit to the playground by the beach.

Then for reality.

Daniel needed to visit the public restroom, but Ian made a bee-line for the water.  Soon the restroom project was entirely on hold.  The boys ran in the direction of the waves, and soon they were splashing around in them, waist-high.  Within minutes, I had a basic concern:  how could I "watch" them while they were way ahead of me in the water, and I was still in my shorts?  [At one point, when Daniel had fallen in the water and had a hard time getting back up with water in his eyes, I pulled him up and led him by the hand closer to shore, as he commented along the lines of "Oh, Daddy - you're kind-of like a lifeguard now."]   Eventually, I had a job for Ian - to bring my wallet, camera and car keys over to Mommy, who was walking on the beach with Madeleine.  Daniel had the erstwhile task of accompanying me to the shore so that I could put the remainder of my pockets' contents into my shoes, which were waiting for me in relatively dry sand.  Then I was good to go.

Within minutes, I was splashing around in the waves with the boys.  It's never so bad after the first dunk under the surface.  I had some basic cardiac concerns leading up to that point, but once I had swum underwater, I felt strangely warmer than I had before, and soon I was swimming without hesitation and finding it not-too-bad-at-all.

But I'm convinced that children simply don't have developed nerve endings.  No adult would volunteer for such counter-intuitive recreation as Springtime swimming in the Atlantic in Maine.  Except maybe a bunch of wacky old guys in South Boston, the "L Street Brownies," who immerse themselves in Boston Harbor every New Years Day, presumably to prove that we Irish are sufficiently endowed with hardiness, and deficient in natural tendencies toward self-preservation, to continue to be a threat to the established World Order.  But the L Street Brownies likely had a bit of liquid thermal injection to neutralize the ocean's temperature somewhat.  Ian and Daniel hadn't taken that extra measure, at least as far as I know.

So between the swimming and a trip to a nearby candy store, we actually missed our "window" to go get lobster from a seafood stand.  By the time we left the parking lot, it was pretty late and most of the relatively-affordable places had closed, leaving only the more expensive, crowded sit-down seafood restaurants.  So instead we went to a diner, and Amy told Daniel that she would take him to the grocery store the next day to get lobster.

[Meanwhile, Ian had noticed that one of the candy stores by the beach had a "Cashier Wanted" sign in their window, and was contemplating, out loud, the prospect of trying his hand at such a job.  In earnest.  Did I think he could do it?  "I don't know."  I'm a big liar.  I didn't want to discourage him from having professional aspirations and a work ethic and a vision of expanding into the larger world.  Of course, he reiterated his desire to make some money and try cashiering work, at supper, and Amy mentioned the whole thing about age - that he would have to wait until he was about 15, rather than eight.  But I was very moved, that Ian had no trouble imagining himself, at his present age, taking on a job as a cashier at a beach-side candy shop some distance away, in another state. ]

In any case, Daniel got his lobster the next day, at the grocery store.  But what we hadn't anticipated was that he would be more interested in a hands-on exploration of the creature, than in a meal.  Daniel picked the lobster off his plate, and was handling it much the way he would a truck or airplane, and closely studying the workings of its claws, with a running commentary and a bit of dramatic dialog.  He made a point of mentioning to me that it's okay to play with it, because it's not alive.  In the very most practical terms, I could see his point - that he wasn't inflicting any cruel and unusual treatment on a living creature, but I didn't feel like I could really endorse Daniel's assertion, either.

But Amy turned out to have a far more practical idea about what can be done with a cooked lobster. Adults mostly think about eating and staying warm and dry.  Children see endlessly more potential in the world of nature around them.

(May 27-28, 2012)