In my family, there’s a little joke (I use the term loosely) that there’s one sure way to know you’ve crossed the border into Maine: ceaseless repetition of “Amie” on the radio.

I grew up with this treacly tune, which apparently peaked in popularity (at #27!) the year I was born. Mostly I thought nothing of the fact that it was still in heavy rotation twenty years later. After all, most of the musical stylings on offer at the time shared that trait.

But it became clear, from the eye-rolling scoffs of my sisters and soon-to-be brother-in-law, that somehow “Amie” was different. That it literally was not played in any other state in the union. That only such a backward place as Maine would continue to treasure it.

I can attest that that is not quite true, as I heard it this morning in Massachusetts. Then again, the two states used to be one. And I can’t rightly say I’ve ever heard it played elsewhere. In fact, when the fella and I made our epic cross-country return from the West Coast, we crossed from New York into Massachusetts — and promptly heard the song on the radio. Laughingly, I told him The Rule.

The degree of truthiness is questionable, but I like The Rule, and I like the picture that the song puts in my head of the vast arch of the Kittery bridge, and the various trips home that required a crossing there. (As a child, I once caused much mirth by expressing surprise when my mother told me we had crossed from one state into another: “But we didn’t cross a bridge!”)

Aaaaand speaking of travels, I am taking the much-dreamed-of trip to sunnier climes with Jr. next week, so I shall be absent from the blog. With hope, “Amie” will be absent as well.

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