The Things We Miss

After being in Andover, Maine, over the weekend, I find myself quite reflective this morning. I grew up in Andover; the farm on the cover of my Lone Mountain book was home. I realized this weekend, as I looked out over the log cabin and landscape surrounding it, that it will always be home. Another family may live there now as my family has moved on, but home for me will forever be inside that driveway. The trees in the front yard are full-grown now, but I remember when my dad planted them. The backyard is missing an apple tree; the kids who live there now will not know the pleasure and fear of whipping an apple from a stick at their siblings. There are no cows in the pastures or corn in the fields. There is no sandbox filled with trucks and tractors, no doghouse housing a beautiful Collie, and no path through the ditch to the farm across the street. But in my head, it's all crystal clear. 

For a while, my husband and I owned and operated a small diner in Andover. The diner raised my kids much like the farm raised me. It warmed my heart to see a few faithful patrons this past weekend while I was selling my books at Lone Mountain Campground. It's been five years since we closed the diner. The timing of our decision to close was perfect, as it was only a few months before COVID. Our original plan was to return in mobile form, in a food truck, but after years of working every single weekend, it's been very nice to have weekends off! I do miss it; I miss the people, the connections, the hikers, the rush of a full restaurant with a line out the door. But, as I discovered this weekend, it's not bad to miss things; it's a sign of a life well-lived, a sign of happiness. And, who knows what the future holds...