It's not often that I have occasion to update older dispatches. But it's not very often that the context that makes those older dispatches valid leap off the page and return from my most distant memory bank.

Yes, the price of gas has put a major crimp in my plans. But so has the weather. Have you stepped outside lately? Scary...

Um, yeah, about all those adventures I was going on? “Hitting the road?” Have you seen what they’re getting at the pumps lately?

Still, my editors do enjoy getting content on occasion. And what better way to force my debit card into the pump, in the name of providing content, than to check another item off of our to-get-to list? Mrs. Tourist and I have been planning to get to the Lighting of the Nubble for all of the six Christmases we’ve been here, but no soap as of yet. Well, get out the red pen! There’s a check mark to put down on the list now.

Where are you going tonight, to-
night-
Where are you going, John Everel-
down?
There’s never the sign of a star in
sight,
Nor a lamp that’s nearer than Til-
bury Town

From “John Evereldown”, by Edward Arlington Robinson.

The Tilbury Town of Edward Arlington Robinson was a land of diminished opportunities and lonely dreamers, and the Gardiner that he lived in and fictionalized wasn’t much happier. The family fortune dwindled, both parents and two brothers died, the love of his life married his brother. Ouch.

It was the end of the line, the last leg of a road trip, anchored by Burlington, VT and Cooperstown, NY, that saw us hit seven states and all of New England in 60 hours. We needed a Maine homecoming.

It’s all kind of a blur, really. Snapshots flash by in double-time, leaving me as dizzy as I was during the actual event. Hurry up, taste, wait, smell, resume… I’ll try to process this orgy of sensory overload in real-time, but I don’t guarantee anything. Welcome to the 156th annual Fryeburg Fair.

So apparently, for lo these five-plus years, I’ve been spending my working days not three miles from the mighty Atlantic. Who knew? For some reason my mind thinks inland when I think Scarborough. But of course, Scarborough is home to Prout’s Neck, which is where a rather fine painter, fella named Homer, lived and worked from 1883 to 1910.

“Weatherbeaten.” I rest my case.

Well, why not? Gorgeous night, one of the last nights with temps in the 80s for a while. In spite of the mercury reading tonight, the light carries the unmistakably brilliant glint of the autumn. There would likely be a few late-season sunbathers on the beach, but I was sure that I would find that solemn feel of a resort town starting to shut down for the year. I eagerly awaited my first look, as Mrs. Tourist and I flew down Rt. 77.

We didn’t get too far.

The autumn is here, and the light reflects. Mrs. Tourist and I occasionally veer off 95 on the way home and take Rt. 1 through Yarmouth to Freeport. We always meant to hit Mackworth Island, but never did. Until...

Welcome to installment one of a new feature: You Are Here. The idea? Simple. Visit places. Take pictures. Write about it.

I think I can handle that.

I’m hitting the road and dropping in on Maine places that are off my path, beaten or otherwise. Most of the places in this series I’ll have never been to. Some will be quite familiar to me, but everything is new in the eyes of the Native Tourist. I am somewhat limited by the day job and the price of gas, but I think I can cover a fair amount of territory and get an accurate snapshot of life in Maine. There’s a lot of adventure to be had on the open Maine road, even within a tight radius. I’m going for it.

(I hate cutesy titles, but it was inevitable.)

I have never been to the Yarmouth Clam Festival. Why not? Who knows. I'm not much of a festival guy, for one thing. Too many people, too many tourists, too many opportunities to spend waaayyyy too much money on bad food. Oh, and there was the time when I was eight or nine that I heaved a good gorging of HoJo clam strips all over the rug of an Orlando Holiday Inn. Put it all together, and I just never made it to this Maine institution.

Yes, I’m still alive.

I just got back from an extended visit with the in-laws in Seattle. It’s great to be home, but I must say I do miss the Pacific Northwest quite a bit. Maybe because Seattle and Portland are so similar in so many ways.

Ah, The Game. The National Pastime (no, the other national pastime) still holds great sway over me. Is there any place in the world better than a ballpark?

On the eve of yet another FREAKING NOR’EASTER, I find myself revisiting a few memorable spots in my mind in order to desperately remind myself that summer is, in fact, approaching.