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Somebody said to me recently that there are only 12 people in New Hampshire, and we all just change our hairstyles and clothes a lot.  Everyone here is connected in some way. We walked into Susan and Woodie’s big screen porch overlooking Squam Lake, and of course already had connections with the other couple there, though I’d had no idea they knew Susan and Woodie.  I once worked in the same building with Deb, who worked with Susan two jobs ago, and David and Deb’s husband worked together and I had met him last winter at a poetry reading.

Mark and Andi and other friends were out on their boat, so I texted them where I was on the lake and they came by the dock and got off for a visit.  More connections, of course. Mark keeps his boat at the marina where Susan’s son works so they know him, and Mark knows one of the carpenters who recently worked on an amazing house Susan and Woodie had been describing from a recent visit for a benefit party.

But the best part of the whole little Squam vacito was just the connection with letting go. We spent the afternoon overlooking the lake, chopped by wind and ruffled into a sparkled blue.  We took a short cocktail cruise in Woodie’s 1965 wooden motorboat, a gleaming beauty, and watched the fledgling eagles flapping their already great wings around a tall pine as the sun set through clouds over the Squam Range.  Susan and Woodie and David and I threw together a random dinner of nachos, garden green beans and caprese salad with goat cheese and ate on the darkened porch, only citronella candles providing light as we moved into an after dinner recounting of family histories.  And for David and me, we kept reconnecting with the reality that even though Monday morning was just around the corner of the upcoming night’s sleep, we didn’t have to go to work.

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