Salisbury rarely grabs the spotlight at The Brunswick, but today is different.
It’s a sleepy, chilly Friday afternoon and the beach is empty except for the glorious tent behind the lifeguard stand, positioned for the lobster bake that will likely be postponed until tomorrow.
That’s the early season crap-shoot in Maine. But we roll the dice every time.
Salisbury is a fixture at the Brunswick. Like Cheers, everybody knows his name and today he’s center stage as we sit inside and debate whether the hot-air balloon event will come off tomorrow. Whether the vacationing throngs now cramming the turnpike will hole up at their campsites and motel rooms or stop by for a nightcap.
Certainty does not exist here. Neither accountants nor actuaries nor the weatherman can ever accurately predict what will happen next. That’s the great beauty of it and the great sorrow. Excitement always implies risk.
Maine strives to be “The Way Life Should Be.” In fact, it is the perfect snapshot of the way life is from moment to moment: unpredictable.
Yet if the worst life that The Brunswick has to offer is a shaggy, good-natured dog on a dreary afternoon, I’m a happy man.
