BAR HARBOR DAYS

I've been there. Not on that bench in Maine. In fact not on a lot of benchs. A few. They tell tales. That's not right. They keep to themselves. All the stories, all the plans, all the details of our lives.

They don't have to be benches. A library table. An old tree on the tee box of the first hole. A phone booth (remember those?).

If Deadmen Tell No Tales, as an old movie title claimed, then benches and tables and trees and booths are silenced as confidential friends.

So like "A Summer Place", a bench is anywhere where two people share. Driveways are a place of midnight confession, and they, too can keep quiet. As well as bleachers, front porch swings, and tents.