This past June someone asked me where we were going on vacation this year.

With “vacationland” embossed on my license plate, to me, I’m already there. Now, I hesitate to write this article because I’m like many others up here (I won’t mention my state—you figure it out)—we don’t want/need anyone else moving here, especially those who want to change the area to better suit their needs.

“What? There’s no pizza delivery?” A new local said.

No, you have to drive and get it. Thank goodness. Maybe, I should have said, it’ll make you move back to lower part of the U.S.

Now, I’m sounding like a stereotypical crusty (fill in the blank if you know the reputation). I’m actually a transplant myself. To the state, not the region. I am a New Englander, but a southern New Englander which comes with its own bias. However, I remind the locals that my childhood hometown is actually smaller and more rural than where I’m currently living. It’s true. It buys me credibility that my hometown, like here, uses a local company to be the official snow plower of our roads. I take my own garbage to the dump (and make new friends) like I did as a kid, and I learn the names of the shopkeepers and my neighbors.

But back to vacation.

For a year and half up here, I lived yards from a tidal river and thirteen miles to a white, soft sand beach where the attendant says, “Tom’s sitting on the left side” when I arrive on my own after errands.

With the dogs, we’ve hiked over a dozen wildlife preserves within fifteen minutes of the house and still haven’t gotten to them all.

We’ve motored up rivers and around the Gulf, visiting lobster shacks, Atlantic puffins, and adorable harbors and coves.

I’ve photographed loons and learned to identify the sound of ravens versus crows. I have chickadee friends who follow me.

The towns around me brim with out-of-state plates as far as 3000 miles away.  

If everyone comes here, why would I need to go anywhere else?

Ok, so I do have a travel bucket list that’s a mile long, but only one item is outside the state borders. That’s how big this state is.

As this summer has come to a close, and we’re in glorious fall, I’m already dreaming of local winter plans—praying for snow—and of next summer’s adventures.  Until then, we continue to enjoy ourselves.  We’ve moved to within two miles of that glorious beach. Deer, turkeys, and a fox watch us with curiosity. A boat-dotted harbor is our backyard. A friend says I live in a postcard. I do. With views like that, just try and get me to go anywhere else.