The Gang's All Here
For the past five years, we’ve had a tradition where my kids and I go to Goose Rocks Beach in Kennebunkport, Maine for the long Columbus Day weekend. My family has been going to that beach for more than a century and my parents both lived up there almost full-time in their later years.
The house we rent is a converted fire station. When I was a kid, the Old Firehouse was where they always held chicken barbecue dinners. It’s a great house and big enough to hold everyone.
There was some question about whether to do it this year, but we didn’t want to break the tradition. So we all got COVID tests early in the week and luckily everyone was negative. My son Joe and I loaded up the car and drove down to pick up my son Jake at Mass Art in Boston. Gainer and his family were already up there and my daughter Maggie and her family showed up later that night.
We did all the usual things. Walked the beach, got pizza from Roma, cooked burgers and steaks on the grill, drove by the Bush compound, walked around the Port, made Sunday pancakes and had a firepit every night with cigars and Jameson. My son Joe took a dive in the 53-degree water, a Columbus Day weekend first.
On Friday night, Gainer had a few belts and announced that when he bites the dust, hits the sky, kicks the bucket, buys the farm, he wants Dave Van Ronk’s “Last Call” played at the funeral. Then he played it. A little loud. Which led to my nephew Mark Gallagher belting out a classic Irish rebel song. A little louder. It didn’t stop there. Another nephew, Bub McCarthy, took control of the speaker and serenaded us with his song for the ditch. We reached maximum volume with this one.
Next thing you know, the Kennebunkport Police join the hootenanny. "Noise complaint from a neighbor.” So we shut it down. Saturday night, we keep the firepit routine going but no music and a smaller group. Looking out for the neighborhood, ya know. So we’re telling stories and along comes the KPT PD again. “Fire complaint.”
The cop looked at the fire and laughed. No big deal. The goddamn firehouse has ten fire extinguishers in it anyway. On his way out, the cop said, “Hey, this year somebody always has to complain.” Sunday night, another firepit, but no cops. Early night. Next morning, we pack it up and head home.
Before I forget, a funny thing happened Friday morning. I was walking the beach with my son Joe and we ran into my old buddy Pete Smith. Pete said, “Oh no, you’re up here, so no Friday email?” “No, no,” I told him. “It’s coming.” Later that day, Pete pulls into the driveway with a note on a bag thanking me for the Friday emails. In the bag is a bottle of Jameson. Nice gesture, Smitty.
Pulling away from Goose Rocks with so many memories in the rearview, I realized that family, friends and traditions matter most. Especially in times like this. Keep your dukes up.
