It even starts before someone moves to Maine. Around thirty five years ago, my dad moved up from North Carolina to work. Before he left, was chatting with the elderly next door neighbor who said they used to summer at a particular inn. Turns out that place was a couple miles from where he worked. But it continued.

About four years prior, my grandfather took my dad up to UNC to watch an exhibition game between UNC and the damn NY Yankees. My grandfather had been in radio, and was friends with one of the scouts for the Yankees and introduced him, went for supper after the game. Flash forward to about three months after dad moved up. He’s been coaching skiing and is at a sports dinner at the end of the season. Is seated next to the guest speaker. Who happens to be that scout from the Yankee he met before. Stump Merrill.