While talking with a co-worker in New Jersey about deadlines and shared tasks for the following week – when I would be working in Maine – her questions switched to my “whole Maine thing” as she calls it.

“How long a drive?” Eight hours on average, but 9 due to accidents or traffic (Wiscasset on a Friday afternoon) is not unusual. She made a pained expression.

“Yikes – that needs a solid hour of air-conditioned decompression before you unload the car.” I explained our Maine house is a log cabin with no air conditioning. But I added that, for the first visit of the season, indeed we do wait to unload the car as it takes a good hour to clean up the mouse droppings from the winter. Another pained expression.

“Well, I know you are in Boothbay Harbor, so at least you get to see and hear the ocean out your windows.” I disappointed her again, and explained that our Sprucewold neighborhood has great views of pine trees, with the frequent sounds of chain saws.

I knew she had never been to Maine and could see she was trying to reconcile her “postcard” mindset of beautiful rocky shores and smiling families at lobster bakes with my tales of long car rides and a hot, land-locked cottage.

Short of inviting her and her family to visit one summer, I envisioned a scrapbook I could make that might explain why Holly and I so dearly embrace our summers in Maine.

Page one would be the front porch of our cottage, with a swinging bench, an original Maine flag, frequent visits by Hummingbirds and a constant breeze rustling through the trees.

Page two is pictures of our gardens, with irises and lillies (and maybe one day lupines) and ever-present Maine rocks, alongside a photo of Holly in her Wellies, protecting, weeding and tending her patches of earth.

Page three is memories of our kids when young at the beach, braving the icy cold water to capture and hold hermit crabs before releasing them back to the water.

Page four: all the hours on Linekin Bay in my brother-in-law’s sailboat, with the spray of salt water, hair whipped by the wind, and the sparkle of the sun off the water – the true essence of coastal Maine. 

The next page shows cold October nights for the closing of the cottage for winter, with our wood-burning stove glowing a deep red, the Beatles playing on the stereo, and a bottle of Bourbon cracked open.

And last would be recordings:

• the calming sound of the rain on the wooden rafters of our king post truss roof

• waking up to the bellow of distant foghorns

• the laughter of kids diving off the swim float at the Sprucewold Beach Club

• and never-to-be-forgotten: waking up at 3 a.m. to the incredible deep and booming hoot of a Great Horned Owl on a nearby Spruce; Holly and I didn’t say a word – didn’t need to – as we stayed silent under the covers and let that magnificent sound wash over us