A heavy and ominous fog — the precursor of a cold and damp weekend — rolled westward over Biddeford early on Friday evening, and it remained like a blanket over the city for at least the next 48 hours.

Halfway through the weekend, near midnight on Saturday, that fog seemed to be the perfect backdrop for a lone reporter wandering the city’s streets. A reporter looking for stories — the tales of the weary and the songs of those who make the darkness their kingdom.

I didn’t have to travel far.

The fluorescent, unearthly glow of the 7-Eleven sign cuts through the late night fog and mist like so many shards of shrapnel. The wail of a police siren can be heard in the distance and the downtown bars are packed and rocking.

The late-night bargains are being struck over shots of tequila, and the lonely hearts are growing more and more desperate with each passing minute.

Welcome to Biddeford after dark.

A cut-rate Statue of Liberty

Perhaps by default, the 7-Eleven store, at the corner of Alfred and Jefferson streets, has become the de-facto epicenter of night life in downtown Biddeford.

It’s not hard to blend in, but my notebook and pen make me a curious commodity in a parking lot full of late-night activity. The store’s neon signs and its bright interior lighting serve collectively as a beacon for both the downtrodden and those who have nowhere else to go at this hour. It is almost akin to a cut-rate Statue of Liberty: send me your intoxicated, your restless and your lonely.

The store and its parking lot become a social scene unto themselves as wannabe gangsters, mostly teenagers, strut in and out of the store, buying Marlboros and Mountain Dew. After waiting in line for up to five minutes, many of those same customers leave the cash register only to sit in their vehicles or loiter near the store’s front door for as much as 30 more minutes.

Many of those wandering in the front door know each other, and they greet one another as if they were victims of watching way too much MTV. Suddenly, this portion of southern Maine (the way life should be) resembles an imagined life in “the hood” or some dilapidated barrio.

“Yo, G-man, what up?,” hollers a young man to an acquaintance as he jumps out of a shiny SUV. Inside that Jeep Grand Cherokee, the man’s girlfriend, obviously intoxicated, mascara dripping from her eyelids, fumbles with the stereo. The throbbing pulse of rap music fills the lot and the Jeep seems to pulsate to the beat of a song that, from only a few feet away, seems indistinguishable.

Somehow, this music seems to comfort the young woman in the Jeep. She tosses her head back and closes her eyes, silently mouthing the lyrics of a Tupac Shakur song.

There is an undercurrent of violence and uncertainty hanging in the air, lending an ironic balance to the comforting quiet of the rolling fog.

Tough guys don’t dance

Across the street, in front of the Mahaney building, I approach two young men who are wearing oversized jackets and gold necklaces.

“What’s going on?” I inquire, trying to sound hip.

The men stop and look at me, puzzled by my presence and my notebook. Paper makes these tough guys nervous.

“Why do you want to know?” the shorter man asks.

“I’m doing a series of articles about Biddeford after dark,” I respond.

“Oh yeah,” the taller man says. “Make it a love story and kiss my ass.”

I keep pressing, firing off questions and promising anonymity for honest responses.

They seem to think that I am a cop. Each of them shifts from foot to foot, making hand gestures as if to proclaim that they are not intimidated. “I’ll tell you about Biddeford after dark,” the shorter man says. “Biddeford sucks.”

“Why?” I ask.

“. . . ‘cause it just does,” he responds, carefully watching me write down his response. “Hey, do you believe this [expletive]? He’s writing down what I’m saying,” the short man tells his friend. “I’m gonna be in the newspaper. I’m gonna be famous.”

The taller man is making his way toward the ‘50s Pub on Franklin Street. He wants nothing more to do with me or my five-part series.

A few moments later, I come across another man walking along Alfred Street.

Patrick Ordway, 24, is clean-cut, wearing faded blue jeans and a maroon pull-over sweatshirt. He pauses to answer my questions, carefully contemplating his responses.

“Why does Biddeford suck,” he asks, rhetorically. “Well, they put a garbage dump [MERC] right in the middle of town. Who would think to put a waste facility right in the middle of the city?”

“Why aren’t there other businesses open late at night?” I ask.

“The downtown is lousy to look at,” he replies. “and there’s not enough parking.”

The downtown parking lots are virtually empty.

Twenty-four, seven—

Back at the 7-Eleven, Karen Stewart stands outside the front door, smoking a cigarette.

Stewart, 30, has just returned to full-time work after a six-month hiatus. She is a third-shift clerk who says the late-night hours seem to match her sleeping habits.

“I’d rather work second shift,” she says. “But this shift is still better than first shift. I can’t get up in the mornings.”

Stewart previously worked at the store, and she gives an air of being nonchalant when talking about the things she sees while most of the city sleeps. She tells of a homeless man who waits each night for her to throw the old donuts in the garbage dumpster. She sees college students with fake ID cards and high school kids stumbling into the store, drunk or stoned.

“All of the weirdos come here because we’re the only place open,” Stewart explains between puffs of her cigarette. “Last Thursday night, we must have had 20 people waiting in line.”

What do they buy?

“Hot dogs, sandwiches and cigarettes,” Stewart says. “Once the ‘50s [Pub] closes, they all wander over here ‘cause they got the munchies.”

As for the late-night beer runs, just moments before 1 a.m., Stewart confirms what we already suspected. The store becomes a madhouse of activity.

“We lock the beer coolers at 12:45,” she explains. “That way, people who are just wandering around in the store can’t buy alcohol after one.”

 Life During Wartime

Inside the store, roughly a dozen people wander aimlessly through the narrow aisles, browsing the selection of potato chips, pastries and the six hot dogs at the bottom of a steamer.

The store is brightly lit, and a bag of garbage has spilled into one of the aisles. The coffee pots are full, and Stewart rings up each customer, many of whom toss crumpled dollar bills at her from across the counter.

The song playing on the store’s radio seems fitting. The Talking Heads’ “Life During Wartime”: I got some groceries — some peanut butter — to last a couple of days — but I ain’t got no speakers, ain’t got no headphones, ain’t got no records to play. . . I sleep in the daytime, work in the nighttime . . . this ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco — this ain’t no foolin’ around.

Outside, a teenager from Thornton Academy makes a deal in the parking lot. Within moments, a young man emerges from the store with a six-pack of Budweiser beer. A quick, bleary-eyed handshake later, and the student takes the beer and returns to the car where his friends wait.

Romeo and Juliet

On the edge of the parking lot, just beyond where the police cruisers roll past on Jefferson Street, a young couple is in the middle of a hushed conversation. I dub them Romeo and Juliet.

Romeo is nervous, and Juliet bravely walks alone across the parking lot. She is all of 15 and wearing braces. She buys Romeo a Mountain Dew and walks back to greet him across the street.

Romeo is wearing a baseball cap in reverse. I approach these kids.

What are you doing out this late?

“I fell asleep at my boyfriend’s house,” she explains. “My watch broke.”

“Yeah,” Romeo chimes in. “We’re cousins.”

I’m not buying what Romeo is selling tonight.

“No, we really are,” Juliet insists.

Where are your parents?

“Ain’t got no parents,” Romeo pronounces, growing more cocky with each passing second. “I live in hotels and work on a paving crew.”

Juliet thinks her father might be inside the ‘50s Pub, and she peers through the bar’s tinted windows to confirm her suspicions.

“He’s going to be pissed if he finds out I’m not home,” Juliet says of her father.

Why don’t you go home?

“Because he might be there,” she responds.

What about your mother?

“Don’t have one,” she shrugs.

Inside the bar, a cocktail waitress weaves through the sweaty crowd and a doorman stands his post near the door, keeping a careful eye on the crowded dance floor. I look for Juliet’s dad, but he’s nowhere to be found.

Juliet is in trouble, I surmise. And then, I walk home — past the closed pawn shops, nail polish parlors and restaurants. I can’t stop thinking about Juliet and her uncertain future.

This is Biddeford After Dark. Sleep well.

A full moon is partially hidden by a thin strand of clouds in the eastern sky, and I am back on the streets of Biddeford after dark. I’m not sure if it is the moon or just because it’s the height of the weekend, but for whatever reason, there is a certain energy on the streets tonight; a restless feeling that seems to have much more to do with the pangs of loneliness and despair than with the joy of the approaching holiday season.

This is the first full weekend following the time when we set our clocks back, making the darkness come much more quickly into our lives. The solstice will be here soon, but for now the nights just keep getting longer.

As I walk toward my destination, my mind begins to wander. I wonder what Jack Kerouac, the beat generation poet and author, would think about Biddeford. Where would he go on this lonely night? With whom would he hang? What would he say or write? What would he be thinking?

I think also of Kerouac’s primary characters from On the Road, Sal Paradise and the infamous Dean Moriarty. Would Allen Ginsberg howl at the moon, while Kerouac sips bourbon from a hip flask, both men walking along Main Street?

“Yas, baby — dig it, this is it,” Dean would probably say. Turning to Paradise, Dean would ramble about the energy of the city, the working-class mill town where the factories are dying a slow death. They would seek out the lonely and the down-trodden. They would shoot pool and hustle young women. They would find a party on Bacon Street and then drink cheap beer while smoking marijuana.

And if you sleep during the day, while the city thrives and jives; and if you walk into the night, full of energy and lust for adventure, what things will you find? And will your mind play tricks upon you? Would you see James Dean— collar turned up to the cold, autumn air — shuffling along Lincoln Street and wearing a Harris tweed jacket with a Lucky Strike dangling from his lips?

Trying to ignore those wandering thoughts, I turn onto Alfred Street, moving ever closer to my destination: The Biddeford Police Department.

Third shift is the bomb

It’s just after 10:30 p.m. Anthony Ciampi and Peter Schimeck are going through a long check-list. Both police officers make sure that their cruisers are in good working order, checking the lights, sirens and radios. The cruisers are backed into the parking lot. closest to the building and side by side to one another. Tonight, I am riding with Schimeck, and Ciampi rolls down his window.

“Third shift is the bomb, baby,” Ciampi , 29, announces with an eager grin. “This is when it all happens.”

Schimeck just grins, continuing with his checklist.

Unlike a lot of other people, Peter Schimeck says he prefers working third shift. In fact, it is the shift he has been working ever since becoming a police officer four and a half years ago. For the last three years, Schimeck has been patrolling the streets of Biddeford, and he says that by working nights he can gain a better understanding of the city and its inhabitants.

“One of the great things about third shift is that there is a lot less traffic,” Schimeck explains. “You can get to the calls quicker, and you can get around easier.”

Tonight, Schimeck and I have been assigned to area five, meaning that our primary concern this evening is to handle traffic calls: accidents, vehicle defects and OUI calls.

Third shift begins with a 10:30 p.m. briefing, and then the officers are on duty until 7 a.m. Schimeck says that he sleeps in the late afternoons or during the early evening hours, generally waking up sometime around 9 p.m.

“I enjoy working nights, you get to work with a different breed of people,” Schimeck says. “I’ve always worked third shifts. Some people think it’s quieter or easier when you work this shift. That’s just not true. We handle more arrests than any other shift, and we’re dealing with things that don’t really affect the other shifts.”

Night shift

Especially in Western culture, the evening hours are generally associated with a plethora of negative images and stereotypes. Bad things happen at night. It’s when the vampires and werewolves thrive, when our vision is impaired and when a whole host of things suddenly go “bump into the night.”

For those who choose — or more likely are forced — to work during the late evening hours, other stereotypes and labels have been applied. It’s a lazy time; a shift when the boss is sleeping and when the workers can party or break other rules of hallowed office etiquette.

Nowhere are these vague misconceptions more acutely applied than in the 1982 film Night Shift, starring Henry Winkler and Michael Keaton. The premise of the film involves two morgue attendees who decide to spice up their shift by running a prostitution ring on the side. The film, which was Keaton’s debut on the big screen, features raucous office parties and activities that would never be allowed during the light of day.

Many third shift workers, however, dismiss these concepts, instead saying they are often able to be more productive and focused without the distractions and restrictions of daytime activities.

In fact, according to the producers of the 1997 PBS series Livelyhood, many third-shift employees reported that they would rather work third shift than a typical 9-5 shift. The reasons given are as varied as the number of responses.

Some workers enjoy being able to spend more time at home during the day, able to greet their children after school. Others said that by working late at night they have more flexibility about how to spend their daytime hours.

Once predominantly worked by blue-collar employees — such as security guards, bakers and factory workers — more and more white-collar workers are now being forced to work third shifts.

Between 1991 and 1997, there was an 11 percent increase in the number of white-collar employees working evenings or nights, compared to a 6 percent increase for blue-collar workers in the same time period, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics.

Those trends have been attributed to a changing global economy and the need for increased competition across international time zones. Despite the increases, however, white collar work during third shift is still rare when compared to the jobs that are typically held by blue collar workers.

According to the U.S. Labor Department, only 1.3 percent of the 27 million Americans who work in managerial and professional positions work during third shift.

The greatest number of people who work during third shift remains the blue-collar workers who either prepare food, provide cleaning services or work in essential jobs such as police, fire and medical services. Approximately 3 million people work during the third shift in the United States, according to the Labor Department.

Shift work, either by working one particular late-night shift or fluctuating and rotating between three shifts, can adversely affect an employee’s circadian rhythms, the body’s physiological activity that occurs every 24 hours.

Abrupt changes to circadian rhythms can cause significant stress on an employee’s mood pattern and ability to function in his or her job, according to research conducted by both the U.S. Labor Department and the Sleep Channel.

A person who works third shift during five nights of the week, and then has two days off, cannot help but to suffer from disruptions to his or her circadian rhythms. Thus, it takes the employee anywhere from between 24 and 48 hours to completely re-adjust to working when he or she would otherwise be sleeping.

During our visits to several Biddeford workplaces, we asked employees about how they cope with their schedules. The answers we received were startling, and indicate that for all of the benefits of working third shift, there may be plenty of good reasons for an employee to carefully consider whether they can handle working third shift during an extended period of time.

This is Biddeford after dark. Sleep well.

Friday, 11: 59 p.m.   Peaks Island, Maine

It was nearly midnight and Alberta Haskell couldn’t fall asleep. From her bed, she listened as the storm continued to rage along the island’s southwesterly shore. The frigid winds, peppered with pellets of freezing rain, snaked through the storm windows, making her shiver from beneath her heavy quilt.

Alberta was worried, and once again, she sat up in her bed, peering outside for a hopeful sign of her cat. In the darkness, the island seemed so much more desolate— almost haunted. The storm had the eerie effect of turning back the hands of time. As if it were three centuries before the present; when members of the Abenaki tribe had fished for mackerel along the sandy beaches of the island’s southern shore.

Now, however, the restless seas crashed along the jagged rocks of Torrington Point, echoing like bomb blasts in the winter darkness.

The small boats, moored at Pete’s Marina, were violently tossed as if they were nothing more than plastic toys in a bathtub, and the gale-force winds snapped small tree branches, scattering them like toothpicks near the ferry landing.

Alberta wasn’t sure what to do. She couldn’t get her son’s voice out of her mind. When she had talked to him yesterday, he sounded as if he had been drinking again. He was a grown man and a naval officer, what could bring him so easily to tears?

And to top it all off, she couldn’t find her cat. Precious couldn’t stay out all night. Not in this storm!

Refusing to give into her gnawing fears, she pushed aside the quilt, and with a frustrated sigh— she reached for her slippers.

Alberta tried flipping on the light switch in the hallway. The power was out. She cursed the darkness, feeling more frightened with each passing second. For a moment, she stood very still and drew in a giant breath, forcing herself to remain calm. She had lived alone, in the same house, for some thirty-four years. This was certainly not the first time that a fallen tree, somewhere on the island, had knocked the power out.

She bundled her robe a bit tighter, making her way carefully, in the darkness, toward the kitchen. Alberta opened the back door just a bit and the swirling night air brushed past her, filling the kitchen with its chill. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty. . .,” she called out, refusing to give into her fears or acknowledge that the storm was drowning out her voice.

“Come on, Precious. . .come here, boy. . .kitty, kitty, kitty.” There was no response from the darkness and she sighed again, dreading what she would have to do.

Alberta Haskell was one of the last few remaining natives on Peaks Island. The house, which her husband had purchased as part of a retirement plan, was worth a lot more now, but she refused to sell it, despite the generous offers from men like Ricky over at Island Realty.

She despised the city people who were buying up every last scrap of available land on the island. She refused to give in, or to surrender to the greed that was washing over the island like a driving, late-December snow. The damn mainlanders! They were destroying her childhood memories, bringing their high prices and noisy automobiles to place she considered Heaven on Earth. No! She would not sell, and that was final. But still, they tried. God above knows, how they tried.

Ever since Paul had died, 35 years ago, the house represented all that Alberta had left of a life she once cherished. Even her son, David, wanted her to sell the old house and move to his home in Maryland. She would have no part of that. As long as she could cook her own meals, Alberta wanted to be near her husband’s waiting spirit. They were meant to be together, and no amount of money would ever change that.

Besides, she didn’t need any money. Paul had left her very well off. She owned three small cottages on the west side of the island, and they generated enough income to take care of the property taxes. The rental payments, combined with Paul’s government retirement benefits, stock portfolio and substantial savings, provided Alberta with all the money she could ever want. She lived simply. She didn’t bother anyone, and they didn’t bother her. That was the way she liked it.

The gray, shingled cape overlooked the island’s southern shore, over the waters of Casco Bay and westerly toward Cape Elizabeth and the Portland Headlight. Although Alberta kept the inside of her home meticulously clean, the yard became an eyesore each winter season, waiting patiently for spring when the Henderson’s son, Joey, would mow the lawns and trim the hedges. By Labor Day, however, the yard would begin its annual transformation into a sea of weeds, and unruly brush.

Alberta’s mind was racing. Besides her son, her cat was the only living thing she cared about. Where was he? She closed the kitchen door, ignoring the puddle of rain that had pooled onto the linoleum floor and searched for her flashlight.

The light settled her nerves, and she shuffled back toward the bedroom.

Knowing that prolonged exposure to the cold was going to aggravate her arthritis, she put on an extra scarf and a thick, wool sweater under her jacket. She laced her boots tightly and left the bedroom feeling ready to brave the elements.

She was careful as she made her way down the wooden stairs of the front porch. There were still patches of ice in the places where the snow had stubbornly melted. Clutching the railing for support, Alberta tried to ignore the soaking rains. Her glasses instantly fogged, and she was angry that age had taken such a toll on her body.

Swinging the flashlight in all directions, Alberta could feel the fear building and her mind seemed to be playing tricks. The trees looked much more like taunting skeletons, and the sea-grass swayed and coiled like angry serpents. She was suddenly very cold, and she tried to swallow her growing fears. She wanted to cry, and retreat to the safety of her home, but Precious was out here, and she just couldn’t leave him to freeze.

She removed her glasses, rubbing the lenses with her wet mittens. This didn’t help much. She could feel the cold, traveling down the back of her neck but she moved on through the yard— still searching— determined to find her cat. “Here, Precious. . . come on, kitty, kitty. . .”

Despite the storm, darkness and her own confusion, she was suddenly sure that she could hear Precious meowing from somewhere close by. Stupid cat! Why didn’t he just come inside? The meowing was growing louder, and Alberta ignored her fears, gingerly stepping forward, squinting in the darkness for any sign of her cat. Her boots cracked the frozen, top layer of snow, and she moved the flashlight left and right. Nothing. Where could he be?

Alberta stumbled toward the rear of the house. Sometimes Precious curled up between the silver LP tanks near the back porch. As she moved closer, she heard a different sound that made her stop in her tracks. Someone or something was breathing right behind her. She didn’t want to turn around, but she couldn’t help herself.

As quickly as she could manage, she turned to face the shadow of the stranger in her yard. “Who are you?” she cried, startled by the man’s raised arm. He never answered, and Alberta dropped her flashlight just before the darkness took her over, one last time.

From beneath the back porch, a narrow set of green eyes watched as the stranger walked out of the yard, disappearing into the envelope of the storm. Precious curled himself into a tight ball of fur, protecting himself from the wind and rain. It was going to be a long night, and he knew that there was no one left to let him inside.

Saturday, 2:34 a.m.

Washington, D.C.

Stewart Derry was sound asleep when the phone on the bedside table began to ring. He had been snoring, and he insides of his throat felt parched and clogged by tiny droplets of saliva. Stewart was a man very familiar with phone calls in the middle of the night. He switched on the bedroom lamp and rubbed his eyes, fumbling for the phone as it rang again. As usual, Stewart was sleeping alone. He considered it a small price to pay for being the man closest to the Leader of the Free World.

Before the third ring, he had his throat cleared and the receiver in place. “Yes?”

The voice on the other end of the line sounded serious, if not apologetic. “Mr. Derry, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour— but I thought you should know.”

Stewart was instantly wide awake and he swung his feet over the edge of the bed. The caller was Vice Admiral Henry Garland, chairman of the National Security Agency. “Know what?” Stewart demanded impatiently, checking his watch.

“We’ve taken care of the first problem.”

Stewart’s mind was reeling. “Henry, you shouldn’t have called me here!”

“We’ve secured the line, sir.”

Stewart considered the possibilities of what he was being told before responding. “What about the second problem?”

“We’re still working on it.”

Stewart rolled his eyes. “Two hundred and thirty-four billion dollars a year, and you guys can’t trace a simple e-mail message?”

“There were complications.”

“Henry, I don’t give a rat’s ass about your complications,” Stewart barked. “We need to solve that second problem, and we need to solve it now. Do you understand me?”

“‘I’m crystal clear. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

Stewart didn’t want to hear those words spoken out loud.  “Let me know when all of the loose ends are wrapped up,” he said in a much softer tone.

“Yes, sir,” the admiral replied, no longer attempting to hide the disdain he felt for this civilian before hanging up the phone.

Stewart hung his head, sitting in silence for a moment before picking up the phone again. Without a second though, he dialed the secured number to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. “Get me the President,” he said.

And so, it had started.

Copyright, 1997 Randy Seaver

18 March; Thursday, 11:23 p.m. Crofton, Maryland

It was the sum realization of a lifetime, and David Haskell couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. Staring at the computer monitor, he wondered if he was making the right decision. There was only one thought prevailing among the thousands of others in his crowded mind: After all this time— could he possibly know what the right decision was anymore?

The house was dark, save for the bluish haze of the computer screen. David had been drinking. It was the only way he could find the courage necessary to execute the chain of events that he had been contemplating for the last three months.

He took another swig from the bottle beside him. The bourbon couldn’t stop the shaking. David knew that the drinking wouldn’t help— but he no longer cared.

The memo was only four paragraphs in length. Some 400 words to describe the Hell that he had helped to create.

Would sending this message be worth the consequences? He forced a laugh, reaching for a nearly-empty pack of cigarettes. “Screw ‘em,” he whispered, hitting the return key. Within seconds, David’s confession was coded and sent deep into cyberspace, making its way toward an unwitting recipient.

What’s done was done.

He took a long drag on his Camel cigarette, feeling some small measure of satisfaction. Too many people had died. Too many lies. It was time for some truth. With his eyes still closed, David reached down and opened the desk drawer. Reaching inside, he felt the cold, yet welcome, steel of the Lorcin semi-automatic.

He kept his eyes closed, crushing the remains of his cigarette on the desk and lodged the muzzle of the gun beneath his chin, slowly wrapping his index finger around the trigger.

“Forgive me, Beth,” he sobbed before squeezing the trigger.

With that, the deputy national security advisor was no longer a threat to those who were worried about his loyalties.

The deputy national security advisor commits suicide only a few hours before his widowed mother is brutally murdered on a small island off the coast of Maine. These events set the stage for a political thriller that ultimately leads three very different people on a journey of personal discovery and a quest for the truth.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

This is a story about our very first camping trip as a family in 2002. This, unfortunately, is a true story.

It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend of camping. I should know better than to include the word “relaxing” when talking about a camping trip with the kids and Laura, who — by the way — requires a minimum of 47 hours of sleep between Friday and Sunday.

This camping trip was a spur-of-the-moment decision Laura made while I was busy wrapping up some Saturday morning errands. Since we are planning a longer camping trip later this month at Rangely State Park, Laura suggested we should take a trial run at camping in order to check out the “equipment.”

So, I spend the next two hours packing up the Jeep, which includes taking down the kids’ tent that I put up in the yard. Laura makes a “quick” run to her parents’ house so that we can borrow a lantern.

I am alone with the boys, who are very excited and very eager to help pack, and they offer plenty of suggestions about what we need to bring. I load the sleeping bags, the tents, the bug spray, the lawn chairs, the tarp, the kids’ water toys and a cooler that weighs roughly 300 pounds, not including the ice we still have to buy.

As a finishing touch, I strap the canoe on the roof rack and squeeze the paddles over the pillows, blankets and cookware. And we’re off. Two vehicles, two kids and more “stuff” than the Allied Forces needed in Germany.

An ominous sign

While driving to the campground, my eyes catch a glimpse of gathering clouds on the horizon. If there is ever a drought, simply ask Randy Seaver to plan a camping trip. There’s no better way to ensure a steady downpour.

We arrive at our site at approximately 3:30 p.m. “Let’s set up camp,” Laura proclaims. Unpacking moves a little more quickly until we realize that we don’t have enough stakes to set up the “main tent.”

Matthew begins to cry. We forgot to bring a “floatie.” Tim meets a friend at the campground. He wants to know if he can visit her family’s site so that he can watch a video.

Fortunately, we picked a local campground relatively close to home for our ‘test run,” so I offer to drive back to the house, get the “floatie.” Roughly 90 minutes later, I return to the site. Matthew doesn’t want to go into the water now.

Laura wonders what we will have for dinner. We planned on steaks but there is no grate for the fire. So, we have approximately 250 pounds of snacks and salad stuff, but nothing for dinner. I still have yet to eat lunch. “Kentucky Fried Chicken sounds good,” Laura suggests.

I’m back in the Jeep with Matthew. Remember, Tim is busy watching a video. I tell Laura to keep an eye on the raging inferno that I built as a campfire. The mosquitoes seem to enjoy our brand of bug repellent.

The line at Kentucky Fried Chicken circles around the parking lot. We wait 35 minutes only to be told, upon finally reaching the counter, they are out of extra crispy chicken. “I don’t care, just fry something and put in a bucket,” I bark.

A “quick” stop at Hannaford for some “adult beverages” consumes another 22 minutes as I wait in the “express” line behind a woman who wants to cash a check from Neptune with no identification.

Summer traffic on Rte. One is a nightmare. Bumper-to-bumper and Matt tells me he needs a bathroom. “I have to go real bad,” he says, grimacing in the backseat.

Evening descends

I return to the campsite at 7:50 p.m. It’s getting dark. Tim tells me he is hungry. Apparently, watching a video in a neighbor’s R.V. is a physically draining experience. Laura notes that we forgot the marshmallows and graham crackers. The kids fight over who gets to use a particular stick. I trek a half-mile to the convenient camp store, where I use a strained Visa card to buy a dusty bag of marshmallows.

Finally, the kids are asleep. Peace and quiet and the great outdoors. I crack open a bottle, and Laura yawns from the comfort of her camp chair. “Goodnight,” she says, kissing me on the forehead. The fire needs to be extinguished by 10:30 p.m. The flames are three feet high. I look around and spot an empty, 16-ounce Mountain Dew bottle. Our lantern doesn’t work.

It takes me only 38 trips back and forth to the campground’s water spigot (located 350 yards from our site) to put out the fire. I finally enter our tent and lie down, exhausted. It is so quiet and peaceful that I can clearly make out the sound of air slowly seeping from the air mattress. I decide to ignore this latest development. And then, the rain starts and a clasp of thunder wakes the boys.

“Welcome to Maine,” I sigh. “The way life should be.”