The summers in Maine were the best. They were a break from school, from the suburbs, and from our more formal selves.
In Maine everything seemed brighter, especially the boys.
One of my sisters was dating the most handsome boy in teen dating history. They glowed in each other’s company.
One day my sister went to her boyfriend’s family camp for a cookout. This was not our mother’s style picnic (jar of peanut butter and another of Fluff), the boyfriend’s family had hot dogs, hamburgers, rolls, potato salad, and home-made lemonade with slices of lemon floating prettily - a real spread…
My sister was set the task of toasting the hot dog buns on a rack over the campfire.
Did I mention that her boyfriend had eyes as black and smooth as one of those magical rocks you find on a beach…?
I always suspect my sister was thinking of those eyes when her boyfriend’s hard-of-hearing grandfather commented,
“I smell something…” and then louder, “I SMELL something BURNING!” and louder still, “I smell BREAD BURNING!”
My sister, startled out of her reverie, flipped the charred hot dog buns off the campfire. Black and smooth they were not.
Some forty years later, whenever there is the whiff of burning bread, someone of us will comment, “I smell BREAD BURNING!”
In Maine everything seemed brighter, especially the boys.
One of my sisters was dating the most handsome boy in teen dating history. They glowed in each other’s company.
One day my sister went to her boyfriend’s family camp for a cookout. This was not our mother’s style picnic (jar of peanut butter and another of Fluff), the boyfriend’s family had hot dogs, hamburgers, rolls, potato salad, and home-made lemonade with slices of lemon floating prettily - a real spread…
My sister was set the task of toasting the hot dog buns on a rack over the campfire.
Did I mention that her boyfriend had eyes as black and smooth as one of those magical rocks you find on a beach…?
I always suspect my sister was thinking of those eyes when her boyfriend’s hard-of-hearing grandfather commented,
“I smell something…” and then louder, “I SMELL something BURNING!” and louder still, “I smell BREAD BURNING!”
My sister, startled out of her reverie, flipped the charred hot dog buns off the campfire. Black and smooth they were not.
Some forty years later, whenever there is the whiff of burning bread, someone of us will comment, “I smell BREAD BURNING!”
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