The Trip to L.L. Bean

Early in the first year of our marriage, we purchased what, to date, remains the only brand new car I have ever owned—a 1981 Honda Civic wagon. The narrow chassis and compact interior, along with front wheel drive and 5-speed manual transmission, made for easy maneuvering on the roads during snowy New England winters. Our 120-pound Newfoundland dog could hop into the hatch area to contentedly go for a ride. But it wasn’t the dog that hopped in there on Christmas Eve when we made the trip to L.L. Bean.

My husband, John, and I had moved to Andover, Massachusetts, when he took his first job out of college as an art teacher at Phillips Academy. John’s mother and brother lived in nearby Fitchburg making family get-togethers for holidays and birthdays very convenient. John’s sister, Robyn, and husband Max lived in the Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, area but made the trip to Andover in December 1980 so that the six of us could all celebrate Christmas together.

Around ten o’clock at night on Christmas Eve we sat in our tiny living area sipping hot chocolate and chatting when John’s mother, Dorothy, mused aloud wondering if any of us knew that L.L. Bean was open 24 hours a day, every day of the year. The non-sequitur didn’t phase any of us as the group happily switched topics and began talking about their various experiences at the iconic store.

“I’ve never been,” I said. My five new family members stopped sipping from their mugs and stared at me in wonder.

Max’s eyes brightened as he said, “We should go.” Robyn considered for a moment but reasoned that there just wouldn’t be time to fit such a trip in before they needed to head back home in just two days. Max set his mug of chocolate down, scooted forward on the couch, and said, “No, I mean we should go right now.” Sure that she had heard him wrong, Dorothy asked, “Now? As in right now? It's almost 10:30.” Max nodded.

Within a few minutes John agreed with Max, Robyn and Peter protested to a small degree, Dorothy threw up her hands in resignation, and I thought, “Why not?” With a light snow falling, the six of us piled into the Honda—John driving, Max, a man of burly physique, taking the passenger seat, we three women squeezing into the back seat, and sixteen-year-old Peter, also of burly physique and a fair number of pounds heavier than even the Newfoundland dog, crawling into the hatchback sans seatbelt—and off we ventured on the 100-mile trip to Freeport, Maine.

It was a crazy thing to do. As we made our way up I-95, the weather worsened and the snow fell. As we crossed the state line from New Hampshire to Maine, the roads gleamed white. John, an expert driver in all manner of conditions, steered us on to our destination. We arrived shortly after midnight at the retail mecca where the lights of the parking lot reflected off the clouds and the fallen snow created a sort of halo above the giant store. The building seemed to pulsate and glow as we trekked our way from the car to the welcoming doors of L.L. Bean.

It was toasty warm inside. Christmas music was playing, which added to the spirit of the holidays. We didn’t buy very much in deference to poor Peter who would have to share his hatch area with any purchases. But, wandering the aisles of mittens, hats, boots of all ilk, camping equipment, skiwear, and so much more brought the joy and knowledge that we had done something wonderfully impulsive.

Copyright DJ Anderson 2016