As those punk rock legends from London, England once asked, “Should I stay or should I go?
They also said, “This indecision’s bugging me” and I feel them at this time of conflict.
As I sit here on the porch of this cabin tucked at the bottom of a Maine hillside, over-looking Green Lake, I know my time here is coming to an end.
I can have the camp through Sunday, if I so choose.
Or I could leave today and begin the six-hour tarred journey back to Fairfield County, back to the hustle and bustle and of the 203 where, for the next few days, I can sit and bask in the cool air-conditioning, crash on my couch and catch up on my HBO shows, and just chill for a few days before heading back to the work grind come Monday … or Tuesday.
Like I said, “This indecision’s bugging me … Should I stay or should I go?”
Most of you who have been following this blog this week, as I’ve offered up “The View From The Lake,” are without a doubt doing your best Jackson Browne impressions and, as a collective group spread far and wide, harmonizing in high-pitched voices, “Won’t you Staaaayyyyy … Just a little bit long longer.”
But I’m not sure I want to. I’m feeling as if my time is up here and it’s time to return to my Humble Abode, to get away from the fish-less fresh-water lake that is in front of me, and head back to the salt-water bastion of the Long Island Sound … which also has no fish, from my experience.
I came home to get away from “home” and I did just that.
But it’s time to go.
Once upon a time, Green Lake was me … as I laid out in an early post, this water means a lot to me and will forever hold a place in my heart.
Today, though, I’ve come to realize it’s no longer the draw it once was for me.
I can’t drive eight miles for an iced coffee when I can walk two blocks for a Green Mountain coffee, 80 percent coconut, 20 percent hazelnut, and the best bacon, egg and cheese sandwich in the world from the Lighthouse Deli.
I’ve heard enough boats buzzing across the water this week to last a lifetime. I actually miss the hum of my tires rotating across the I-95 asphalt at 65 miles per hour.
Growing up in Orrington and Bangor, I’ve never been a country boy; never claimed to be one, never wanted to be one. Yes, I’ve been hunting (twice) and ridden a snowmobile and an ATV — Hell, I’m not a city-slicker by any means.
I’ve spent the last six days in this tiny spot some people would call Paradise and it’s been nice.
I’m glad I did it and I am thrilled to have caught up with the people from my past that have always meant so much to me.
My vacation bucket list is almost complete (I must find a way to get to McLaughlin’s Seafood today because I swear on the life of every lobster in the ocean, Connecticut seafood is the worst of its kind) so it just feels like it’s time.
I’ve got two more people I hope to see and I hope the gods of fate deal me a hand that allows that to happen.
Then, it’s time to go.
Rise and shine on Saturday morning; Destination “Home.”