If I were to go away, would I always look for your beautiful face in every crowd, every place?

Back from Maine in one piece, though at the onset of my trip it looked dubious whether I would be. When I left Somerville, it was hot and sunny, barely a cloud in the sky. But the closer I got to Maine, the more ominous the climate became. The sky darkened and the wind picked up. Once in Maine, I hit pockets of violent and unrelenting storms. I felt like Frodo near the end of his journey. I asked myself on more than one occasion if this turn of events portended a lousy vacation. I hoped not.

The night before I left, I was in bed thinking about the trip. Up until that point, I had thought upon it with fond anticipation. All of a sudden, I felt a sense of dread about the trip. There wasn't anything specific that birthed this feeling, but spending time with family, whether our relationship with them is healthy, can be unnerving. Read your Freud if you're not convinced.

When I arrived at the house, my parents, who had showed up an hour earlier, were getting in their car to go to the grocery store. I went with them, though if I'd had my wits about me, I would have stayed back and relaxed in the empty house.

I love and care very much for my mother, but she can be one of the most high-strung people I've ever had the misfortune to be in the company of. Especially when she's a passenger in a car. I figured, or more hoped, that because she was on vacation, the trip to the store would be a relatively smooth one.

It wasn't.

I won't relate every incident involving my mother, because there were more than a few, but I will describe one that should give you an idea of what I'm talking about. We were leaving the grocery store and it was raining. My mother told my father, who has the patience of a Saint, to go fetch the car and pull it up to the storefront so that we could load the groceries in the trunk. As he made his way to the parking lot, my mother said "Oh my God, he's not going to find the car" in a tight, nervous voice. She then called out to him: "Denny! Denny! Use the car finder button on the remote!"

He ended up setting off the alarm, which found the car just as effectively. My mother covered her eyes and hung her head down in seeming embarrassment. "He never listens to me. I told him to use the car finder." I resisted the impulse to go off on her and said, as diplomatically as I could muster, "He listens to you, but you tell him to do a lot of stuff." She didn't say anything to that.

On the way back to the house, we stopped at a sub shop to get some food for dinner. My father and I went inside to order the food and while we waited for it to be prepared, I said to him "I think mom's control issues are getting worse."

He agreed and said the reason he doesn't get upset with her is because one of them needs to keep a cool head. "Were her parents like that?", I asked him.

"Oh, yeah, when I used to work for Pe pere, he used to get on me about all sorts of things." I'd always wondered if that was the case. It stood to reason--behaviors are often passed down. That's why, especially now that I'm not in the midst of it, I view my mother's condition with compassion rather than anger. She's not always knotted up---a good amount of the time she's pretty laid back---but when she is, I feel bad for her because she can't help herself. I've suggested on more than on occasion, and as delicately as possible, that she talk to a therapist. She won't do it. She's set in ways and resists the notion that there's something about her that needs to be corrected.

The first night at the house was great. It was just me and my parents. My sister and her brood were coming up on Sunday. That meant I got to sleep in the basement for the first time ever. I was thrilled. I was going to sleep on a water bed, have a bathroom with a shower to myself, and a beautiful view of the moon-soaked bay.

After hanging out with the folks for a few hours, I retired to my digs. To mark the occasion, I stepped outside and sat on the bench near the edge of the lawn where the water meets, lit a pipe, and took in the calming scene before me. Ahh.

My sister and family arrived on Sunday and the placidity I was nourished by the night before was replaced with the chaos of children. I didn't feel overburdened with their arrival, but, like always, it's a shock to system akin to immersing yourself in a barrel of ice. Once every one was settled in, Kate, her husband Rich, and I went down the street to Buffleheads, a nice little restaurant, for lunch, courtesy of my parents.

We had to drive there, rather than walk, like we usually do, because Rich had sprained his foot earlier that morning chasing one of their dogs in the woods. He was already nursing a sore back, the result of a car accident, that left him out of work for a couple of weeks. Poor guy, last year when they came up, Rich hurt his knee and got the shingles (!). As far as he's concerned, vacationing in Maine is hazardous to his health and maybe he should consider vacationing somewhere else.

Kate and I ordered lobster rolls, while Rich contented himself with a burger. While we ate, I noticed a woman sitting with a large group of people at a table behind Kate and Rich kept looking over at me. She looked to be in her thirties and was attractive. At one point, for the hell of it, I held her stare. She didn't budge and continued looking at me. Finally, she turned away when someone next to her asked her a question. Not that anything was going to happen, but it was kind of thrilling and didn't hurt the self-esteem any.

I spent the rest of the day being active. I went for an invigorating run, went kayaking with Kate and the twins, and went for a walk along the sandbar after dinner, listening to Mark Lanegan and Isobel Campbell sing about love and loss on my Ipod.

I left around lunch time today, wondering if I'd ever set foot in that house again. There's doubt whether my parents will rent it next year. I think they will---they really like it up there despite the complaints that it's become too much of a hassle. As I made my way out of the house, Patrick, my three year old nephew, handed me a ball of Play dough for the road. I shrugged and said "Why not." I grabbed the ball, understanding that it was one of the more significant gifts I've received in a while. The doubts, the fear, the worry, the frustration, can disappear in the scent and softness of a ball of Play dough.