I spent the holiday weekend with my family thanks to a marathon of driving between New York and Maine, once again feeling that sense of relief as soon as I cross the state line. The air in Vacationland is subtly different from anywhere else that I've ever been - only in Maine can you drive across the Piscataqua River bridge, roll down your window, inhale, and smell the ocean, even though you are miles inland. It isn't the dockside smell though, nor the sudden explosion of pine trees and chickadee license plates - it's something subtle and impossible to name, some clarity of the air that makes you sit straighter and drive faster, scenting home in the wind.

The weather was kind after Friday, and we cut, tedded, baled, and stacked the first cut of hay off the field under the brilliant sun. The horses tore into it with abandon - one might almost have thought they preferred it to grain. As T.H. White would say, haying is not an activity, it's a way of life. Plenty of riding to be had, a brief foray into Freeport to brave the summer shoppers, and the annual pilgrimage into Portland for the fireworks on Monday night. We parked on Washington Ave. and climbed the steep pitch of the Eastern Prom until we came out overlooking the harbor. Instead of taking the barge into the middle of the harbor as usual, they apparently had moored it close to shore, and we were practically directly underneath the fireworks when they began. Also note, nylon sleeping bags on steep grassy slopes do not lend themselves well to immobility. Very impressive show, and very well choreographed to boot. About five false finales before the truly grand finale, and then, instead of ending there and then with the loudest bang, an artistic fifteen-second pause, and a single final enormous bloom of golden sparks and fiery trails that exploded into the silence and ended the show with subtlety and class. Showmanship.