Perfect moments are elusive. When I try to capture one on the page, it disappears. It’s like that first sip of coffee you have in the morning. The very first rose bud on the bush.
Warming my hands on the chipped mug, I look across the waves toward One Mile Rock for the millionth time and realize that right in front of me the first sea rose of the season is blooming. It wasn’t there yesterday. But it was there fifty years ago. Five, ten, fifteen, 100. The Myth and Magic of the Repeatable Moment.
The myth is that a moment can be choreographed to be repeatable. The magic is when you stumble on it. Because you can’t orchestrate it. The more you try to set it up, the more it’s likely to fall apart. It’s that darned intentional fallacy–you can’t go home again, but the magic is, you may just wake up and find yourself there.
This is my 63rd summer at The Black Pearl, the dear cottage my grandparents built on Gooch’s Beach in Kennebunk in 1920. It is surpassingly, almost painfully, sweet. There is no summer in my life when I haven’t moved hell or high water to spend at least a day here. Even when I was a Navy pilot, having joined the ghosts of the Sargent Boys and wondered if my father, Wendell (a B-17 pilot), or my Uncle Cordis (C-47s), had ever made it back here on liberty from the European Theatre or the Hump over Burma where they were flying, even for just a day, or, in my Uncle Marshall’s case, U-boat hunting from Coast Guard headquarters in Boston. What had it been like for them to return when it was hardest, when a whirlwind of forces tried to keep them away? When the world was at its darkest, was the dream of sunrise over the beach what kept them going? When my wife and I had a newborn, we returned to show our son that same sunrise. As our son would point out, this reflects not so much on our parenthood as our privilege. He’s right that we should be grateful, and we are.
The Black Pearl is a modest dwelling–beadboard partitions instead of walls, exposed beams, a clawfoot tub with rusty feet, and honeysuckle taking over the back yard. You know, the perfect Maine cottage. There were bridge parties and séances here in the 1940s. Even after my grandfather died, my grandmother returned each summer, trying to recreate the precious rituals they’d shared.
Her decks of playing cards are still here, tucked in the top drawer of the desk. Faded, but here. Each spring, I open the drawer to make sure.
We all collect bracelets of experiences instead of charms, pick up summers like starfish on the beach. It’s where the simple and the sublime meet. I can hear your steps on the porch. I’m glad to see you. More than that–I’m glad you’ve stopped by.
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