For a long time it was a small ranch in Eastham and just my parents, my older brother, and me, though occasionally friends joined us. My parents would come from Rhode Island, my brother from New York, and I from wherever I was living.
The Eastham house was old and musty, with an almost unusable kitchen, but I remember making homemade pasta on the picnic table with my father, painting straw beach hats with my mother, and sleeping in the cabin next to the house. Eastham will always hold a special place for us because of the pond that came with the house, where we'd swim in peace at sunrise and dive in for a dip at sunset. But there came a time when the owners wanted more time there, and we had to look for a new place.
But where? Farther out on the Cape made the most sense. It was closer to P-town and better restaurants; there were better beaches; and it seemed a little more remote.
We settled on a tan shingled Cape just off Route 6 in Truro that came to be known as "The Lincoln House" because of the owner. And for a decade, we had a love-hate relationship with it.
The perks were undeniable. We could bike to three beaches - two on the ocean side, one on the bay - the outdoor shower beneath the deck had super water pressure, the sandy fire trail was perfect for a quiet stroll or jog, the three bedrooms were roomy, and the deck offered gorgeous sunsets, a gas grill, and became our nightly dining table.
But we could never quite love The Lincoln House. A nearby dump would bring an odor that was less than appetizing, the kitchen utensils felt like they hadn't been updated since the Nixon days, the television got two grainy channels on a good day, and the only nearby grocery store was a tiny shop named Jam's, where the coffee was good, the fresh muffins better, and 10 bucks would get you one of each.
