I love my adopted home.

When we retired, my bride, who grew up on the banks of the Damariscotta River in East Boothbay, delivered an ultimatum. She simply said she would no longer like to live in Indiana. “I am going home. I hope you will come with me. But, I am going back to Boothbay,” she said.

It didn't take much for me to agree.

Last week, after spending a year under house arrest, cowering behind closed doors watching the state CDC pandemic statistics rise, we decided it was OK to play tourist and venture out of town for a family do in upstate New York.

I know driving 1,000 miles on the weekend to spend time with relatives doesn't appeal to many of you. After all, we can pick our friends but are stuck with our relatives.

But we are fond of this bunch. We had all been vaccinated, so we decided to take a chance. We got in the old black SUV and headed for Turnpike Land.

I'm sure you know the drill. U.S. 1 leads to I-295, I-495, the Mass Pike, New York Thruway, and so forth. Mile after mile of concrete and asphalt, rest stops, McDonald's and Starbucks.

Along the way, we experienced the whole gamut of professional drivers, careful amateurs (like me), and the usual assortment of knuckleheads.

For instance, somewhere near Worcester, some idiot decided to rubberneck at a fender bender in the eastbound lane. He slowed down, the next guy followed suit, and so forth until I had to slam on the brakes and sneak into the breakdown lane to allow an 18-wheeler enough room to dodge my back fender.

In Springfield, Massachusetts, I saw a sight that I never thought I would see – billboards advertising cannabis (that is dope/marijuana to us old hippies). The signs were not far from a Massachusetts State Police post. Times change.

It took us about seven hours to arrive. For the next two days, we had a lovely time catching up with brothers and sisters, first cousins and first cousins, once removed. We agreed their kids and our grandkids were beautiful/handsome, bright as new pennies, and sure to succeed at whatever they choose to do.

On Sunday, on the way back, we, of course, were stuck in a 10-mile-long traffic jam on the Mass Pike as tourists coming up from Connecticut and New York City tried to merge into the traffic.

As we finally left I-495 and turned onto I-95 in Massachusetts, we noticed a long line of southbound traffic.

It was three lanes wide and sometimes four, stretching out of Massachusetts, through New Hampshire, across the high bridge in Portsmouth, and all the way back to York.

Did you wonder if we would have tourists visiting Maine this summer? Did you wonder if our shops and restaurants, the same businesses that got hammered last summer, would see tourists returning? That traffic was the answer.

Despite the sweltering heat of the last few days, we had good crowds for Boothbay Harbor's Windjammer Days. In Wiscasset, there were long lines of eager fans (and an occasional celebrity) willing to brave the heat for a chance to acquire a $34 lobster roll at Red's Eats.

Now, if our merchants and innkeepers could find a few more folks who would like a summer job, things might be on the way to returning to normal.

Speaking of normal, I got a nice note from Frederick D. Barton, a faithful reader of the Boothbay Register and Wiscasset Newspaper who lives in Washington, D.C. Here is what he said: "Joe, excited to receive our Register in the mail today (June 29) in D.C. Then I noticed it was the March 25 edition. Your column on Post Office woes seemed spot on – even timeless. Thanks for your great work and for making our local paper special.”

For the record, on March 25, the guy who writes Joe's Journal spent 800 words griping about the terrible service by the U.S. Postal Service. I guess Mr. Barton’s experience, receiving the Register’s March 25 edition on June 29, lets me know he wasn’t too far off base.

Welcome back to all our summer visitors and friends.

Be safe. Be well.