God willing, we’ll be back

In my heart, I am a liberal. The “L word,” defined in my mind, is quite simply the belief in providing safety nets wherever possible, even if people claim they don’t need them or won’t avail themselves.

I might also be a little bit communist ... like the characters in the English nunneries on Netflix and the hippy communities of Hollywood romantic comedies, where prosperity is measured in the abundance of song and zany hallucinations.

I might even be a little bit conservative, owing to depression-era ancestors who understood the intricacies of having cake and eating it, too. Or as my grandmother would say: “If you save your money, you’ll have money.”

Officially, though, I am nothing.

I have no declaration, in part, because of employment and the desire to be a mirror of objectivity. And in part, because I don’t want to decide.

To this day I have never voted in a primary election.

Not that it matters when you get to kick sand on a beach in Maine for a few weeks a year. Or brush its crust off your kids or throw sticks along its length as your dog races seagulls into the surf.

You count yourself lucky if you can look out onto the world and marvel at its gifts. A vast number of people cannot avail themselves.

The ocean is bigger than all of us.

Walking dogs on Gooch’s Beach, 7 a.m. That’s where I first ran into Barbara Bush. So many dogs ago.

She was walking behind an English spaniel (not Millie), and I was hoping my soon-to-be husband’s dog, Maggie, wouldn’t chase after them. I was sure the Secret Service wouldn’t take chances with a former First Lady being rushed by an uncouth mutt.

My dog took off barking. And of course, ran straight at them with purpose and the horrible deep-chested bark that had often made my heart leap into my throat.

But when she got to them, my dog quieted, slowed down and circled back to me. Neither Mrs. Bush nor her escort batted an eye.

Dogs. On a beach. It’s what they do.

There wasn’t anything unique about that encounter. Every morning of our vacation, every year for nearly two decades, I’d see the former First Lady at 7 a.m., walking her dogs.

As the years passed, everything about these walks seemed the same. Only our dogs changed: Mine were ever-so-slightly more observant of voice commands; hers got smaller in size. In time, she followed them with the assistance of a walker.

If we ever spoke to one another, it was cordial and in passing. I would apologize for my overzealous cur, and she would reassure me that she took no offense. She’d even joke that her “little rats deserved to be eaten.”

She was funny. And kind. And the stories about her around town reflected those attributes.

One time, though, I dared to take a picture of our worlds meeting on that beach. My entourage – my father and sister – had found themselves walking alongside Mrs. Bush’s entourage (a member of her family and a secret service agent).

And I, with my long lens, weathered the blistering stare of the detail as he spoke into his watch so that I could freeze this moment in time.

Over my objections, my dad had a copy of that photo framed, and he sent it to her with a note describing how much he loved Maine, and that

beach, and being in that moment with her.

In time, a reply came back, thanking him for the gesture. Agreeing the place was special and hoping we’d all get back to it again next summer, God willing.