tempImageMxuka5I don’t particularly like to shave. It’s just one of those necessities, once or twice each week to keep from looking to scruffy or if I have somewhere to go that requires looking civil. Recently, however, a shave was more than a shave.

Judy and I were vacationing at the cottage in Maine, my favorite place to visit. Rustic, in the woods, no electricity. The only real convenience is hot water provided by a propane water heater that makes showering and shaving not only tolerable, but a luxury.

The cottage has two places to shave, the inside bathroom and an outdoor sink on the back porch. This year I decided to shave at the outdoor sink. After soaking the front of my pajama pants with the hot water faucet that sprays in all direction when you first turn it on, I got hot water, soaked the washcloth, put it on my face. Ready for the shave cream, I turned to my left, looked into the mirror hanging on the back wall of the house, and began the process.

Within a few strokes, it hit me that I was standing in the same spot and staring into the same mirror that my dad had stared into when I was a child watching him shave. It was a daily discipline with him. Just a breath later it was my grandfather standing there more than 80 years ago. I’m certain grandpa stared into that mirror as he churned the brush in his shaving cup to work up a good lather, listening to his 5 daughters inside compete for time in the bathroom. I suspect he smiled at the comparative peace of shaving on the porch. I never met my grandfather. He died two years before I was born. All I have are stories. He has always seemed distant and legendary to me, but in those moments of staring into his mirror, I felt a closeness. Like the breeze blowing by, the 80 years came together in a single moment of three generations doing a basic thing.

My time at the Kittery cottage always present me with new things as well as with things old and solid and grounding.