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Next stop in the Crazy Summer of 2004: Waterville, Maine. The week after next, I pile the college freshman and his belongings into the back of a Suburban (yeah, I know, bad gas mileage) and drive up the coast to drop him off. I was reading the stack of paperwork from the college, and there is a line in the schedule, italicized and bold: Parents Leave At This Time.

I could snicker at the thought of weeping parents being dragged away from surly teenagers. "Ma'am, put down the hot-pot and come with me." But I do remember being a little – oh, what's the word? – clingy when I dropped him off at kindergarten. What, they won't call me after school the first day and let me know everything he did and said? What about fingerpainting? What if he does something amazing? What if he's sad and lonely? They can't seriously think parents don't need a daily update.

So I am refraining from snickering.

One of the days in Maine I will spend on my beach. It is not the most beautiful beach in the world. It is on a rather small lake, lots of muck, a few beach houses, pine trees everywhere. It is one of my favorite places in the world. When I was little, I'd perch on a rock (near cabin 1a) and look out over the night sky over the water and pretend to be talking to my friend from Alpha Centauri. Telepathically, of course. Everyone should be able to revisit their childhood telepathic communication stations once in a while. It's good for the soul. If anyone needs to get a message to Alpha Centauri, let me know; I'll pass them on while I'm there.

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