Summers in Maine

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I am, simply, the most interesting crustacean in the world.   Perhaps this is why Mary has invited me as a guest columnist in the Frog Legs section of her website.  I never drink beer, but when I do it could be a Corona light. This afternoon, along the sunny coast of Maine I am attending a lobster convention at the Chauncey Creek lobster pound in Kittery, Maine.  There are hundreds of us attending although not many from last year.  We like to get together to have a few beers, swap stories about the old days, eat of few butter-soaked steamers, and marvel at the tourists.   On this warm, sunny day, it's also the perfect opportunity to chill out and work on my sunburn.   Chix seem to dig that bright red glow.  Coupled with energetic antennae and a willing smile, I do all right with the ladies at these summer get-togethers.

Our convention is not all about the temporary pursuit of pleasure.   Sure, hedonism is a big draw, but education and a sense of our heritage are also valid reasons for leaving the ocean’s floor.   For instance, this year's keynote speaker is Abby Lowney, an expert shellfish geneologist.   How assuring it is to know that one is descended directly from a battalion of British soldiers who went by the name Lobsterbach.   She mentioned even earlier references in the literature of the Pilgrims who, because they didn't covet our inner qualities, returned us to our beloved ocean rather than having us work as slaves or babysitters.  We held seminars about sandy versus rocky ocean floors, maintaining a barnacle-free finish on our shells, the role of salt in our daily diet, and how to get free medical treatment and Social Security benefits.   

There is only so much education we can stand, especially on the weekend .   I’m here to partaaay!   Soon, the Mussel Shoals Rhythm Section will take to the stage, followed by the velvet-mellow sounds of Johnnie Ray who remains a crowd favorite despite having been dead for many years.  As most of the action is around the three pools they have here, not many seemed to have noticed or care.   I lean back, take a slow drag on my Rocky Patel Edge, and push a few perfectly formed smoke rings out over the brothers and sisters sharing this pool.  It’s not long before one or two of these lovely ladies pop up on either side of me.   The longer of the two, with a beautifully shaped pair of antennae, asks me if I’d care for a little companionship at dinner and perhaps on into the night.   They both silently squealed with delight at the prospect and at my enthusiastic, but not over-played response of “yes”.   We shared a few rounds of clam juice shooters when the shorter of the chix (who had four sets of legs that didn’t quit) said that she saw a sign outside the spa that featured a steam bath with a seaweed wrap.   I’d always passed this up, but with the sound of the long-dead vocal chords of Johnnie Ray  and the effects of the clam juice shooters contributing heavily and my obliging female companions, I say, “Carpe Diem”.   The rest of the evening is my business. What happens at Chauncey Creek stays at Chauncey Creek.  Honest.


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