You probably know that my wife's father is named Bill and that for two years Bill has been living in the new back porch I built for him on the back of our house. Bill lived in West Palm Beach for 25 years until it became difficult for him to live alone. Of course, I've been begging him to come up and live with us summers since I first met him, because West Palm Beach is not a place any reasonable person would want to live in the summer time.
Last week, Bill's doctor says to him, "Oh, you're lucky to live here in Maine where there is no stress."
No stress here in Maine? I'd like to see that doctor's wife drag him out of bed at 5 o'clock some January morning when it's two below zero. I'd like to see him bundle up and head out to start his 25-year-old diesel tractor --- the one with the plow but no cab on it. I'd like to see him go out through a window, because last night's slush on the doorstep had turned into solid ice when the temperature dropped forty degrees. And after spending an hour freezing his fingers while getting that old tractor started, I'd like to see that doctor try to move three feet of ice and snow in front the garage door so his wife could get out and drive 30 miles to teach school. And then I'd like to hear his wife yapping at him to take an axe and chop the ice off the doorstep so she, who is already half an hour late in leaving, can get out of the house without climbing out the window like he did. And after he'd knocked a corner off his granite doorstep and ruined his axe while chopping away the ice, can't you see his wife stepping into a two foot drift and getting snow down her boots because he hadn't had time to shovel a path? Oh, wouldn't I like to be there right then when he turns to his wife and says, "I love it here in Maine, where there is no stress."