CAVORTING AT THE SPRUCE POINT INN and RESORT

An Exclusive Unserious Look Behind The Scenes Of Our First Influencer Gig

When Spruce Point Inn and Resort in Boothbay Harbor, Maine invited us to create content for them, Hilary and I knew we had to tone down our foolishness and take this – our first influencer gig – seriously.

This was a challenge. Back in the twenties, the serious gene tumbled from our family tree when the grange lecturer, my great-grandfather, went rogue. Month after month, he ditched his lectures in favor of questionable stand-ups featuring most everyone in town. Three decades later, my father’s father, a liquor store clerk, got stuck-up at work by a bandit wearing a blue and white polka-dotted bandanna while wielding a machine gun. After the hubbub, my grandfather phoned his wife and simply said, “Sorry I’m late. I got held up.”

Hilary and I share our forebears’ humor and we work pretty well together, but due to our restless minds (thanks, ADHD), and the fact that we’re mother and daughter, planning and executing anything together, can best be described as a fraught and wild creative venture.

In preparation I went on the hunt for old postcards. More than eight hours and a hundred bucks later, I emerged from Ebay with 15 posted cards. I planned to stand at the featured locations in Boothbay Harbor and recite some of the back messages with poise and expression and a light-hearted lilt.

I wanted to title our content “Postcards From The Hedge”, so I suggested my photographer daughter shoot me near the shrubs at the inn. I think she rolled her eyes, but by our stay’s end, I’m pretty sure she would gladly have shot me near the shrubs at the inn.

Of course I would have preferred to pose on Boothbay’s glorious rockbound coast – frothy waves cascading behind my behind, the summer sun slipping behind the pines, a soft breeze caressing me. That way at least I could title my scenes “Postcards From The Ledge”, but that would have required traipsing on the edge of said ledge, and the last time I did that, a stranger named Doug had to wedge his body between me and the ledge to stop me from somersaulting into the Penobscot Bay.

Besides, my daughter had other ideas. She spotted one of those life-size chess boards on the grounds and the next thing I knew Hilary had me standing in the gray mist on the game board holding a microphone, pointing to a game piece and saying lines like, “This is where I found my king.” After we’d done a few shots (photos, not booze, although I could have used a swig), she announced she’d like to find a real live man to do a photo shoot with.

Hilary can manifest anything, even a real and live man, so moments later, a man, a boat captain at that, strolled by, stopped, and then, as if he couldn't help himself, turned around, stepped towards us and asked if we wanted our picture taken. We said yes. He snapped the photos then tried to scurry off but Hilary halted him dead in his Dockers™ with one simple question: “How would you like to be in a TikTok?”

30 seconds later, Hilary had captured the captain and me on film and if there are social media acting awards, I’m going to win Best Reaction To A Maine Boat Captain.

Unfortunately, no other Spruce Point Inn employee kissed me, but at least everyone we encountered was cheerful and helpful and funny. Even the guy who caught us trespassing outside his kitchen – I think he was the chef – took one look at rain-soaked, bedraggled me and said, “You can come through this way any time.”

Twice we ate in the inn’s Salty Stag and both times the food was fantastic, but more than the meals, it was our servers who made our dining experiences delightful. Both were personable and hilarious.

During the early evening meal, as Hilary and I looked out over the glistening pool and the ocean, piano music played softly and a quiet ambiance settled over the dining room.

When the server asked if we were ready to order, Hilary said, “I’ll have the grilled veggie sandwich," then – inexplicably, even to her – she gestured towards me and said, “I don’t know what the old lady is having.”

In the space of 5 seconds, the server burst out laughing, tried to check himself, looked at me to assess my reaction, and then turned back to Hilary and again started laughing. We were a trio of merriment. Our forebears would have been proud.

Our first floor accessible room featured a large bathroom complete with fancy artwork, gold-colored grab bars, a walk-in shower and a jacuzzi-style bathtub. Haul in a cot, a dorm fridge and some snacks and I could have lived in that bathroom the rest of my days. In one of the seventies postcards a writer named Mike spots tubs full of fish in the harbor, so I thought we could do a postcard-related video where I sit in the tub surrounded by fish. Lots of fish. Not real ones. Plastic or stuffed fish. Like Disney’s Nemo™ or "Dory™ or SpongeBob’s Mrs. Puff™.

“Mom, no offense, but you can’t get out of a tub,” Hilary said.

Another plan down the drain.

During our podcast at the inn, we re-hashed my tub idea. Here’s a peek:

We replaced my bathtub pitch with the following, and yes I know I promised a lighthearted lilt, but apparently my lilt has left the inn.

My next proposal involved two postcards from the sixties signed by Stella and Bella.

I decided they were twins who did everything together, and I thought it would be a hoot if Hilary and I dressed in our vintage pink bed jackets, sat on the bed, and read the postcards as the twins.

Hilary nixed the Stella/Bella routine, too. Even though I still look good and we had the perfect costumes, I don’t think she could handle playing my twin. Instead the two of us had to venture into the gusty rain and go searching for the site of the former Biological Laboratory in Boothbay Harbor, which further meant we had to skulk around the closed Maine Marine Patrol office grounds where my daughter filmed me in the fog, hair blowing like the dickens, wind wailing while I tried to steady myself and channel Stella and Bella’s words without skidding face first to the ground.

After we got the heck out of there, I kept thinking that there was no way that Stella and Bella would have been skulking around in the dank, dark day, possibly trespassing on state grounds. The close-knit sisters would have been wearing their twin matching bed jackets, sipping Pink Catawba and chillin’ in a cottage at the Spruce Point Inn.

When Hilary dipped her toes in one of the heated pools on the grounds, I felt a surge, a longing to taste the salt air and dive into shimmering waters; then I thought that would best be done at their oceanside saltwater pool which has an unparalleled view of the harbor. But then I remembered that I am a dog paddler from way back, and while I can still execute a decent belly flop, the crawl is too much of a stretch, so Hilary and I ditched the pool plan, shuffled to the shuffleboard, and then went on the hunt for s’mores, a resort tradition. We made it to the s’more shack, but it was closed, which ended up just fine because I found out you had to make your own s’mores and holding a fluffy marshmallow on a fiery stick sounds like cooking to me.

By now we were tired, so we shot another video and then we had a fight and then we went to bed.

The next day we were filming an excerpt from my 1971 diary where I was supposed to say, “I have laid in the sun for about two hours, but instead I said, “I have laid in the sun for about two boys,” which was probably true, but not exactly the content we wanted to capture.

Our final day was rainy and brisk, but because we were now official influencers, the show had to go on. I donned my Diane Keaton rain hat and my vintage lavender maxi raincoat – the one that does not repel water – and Hilary chauffeured me the 30 seconds to our next location, where we filmed yet another poignant scene from my diary. Straight from the summer of ‘68, it went like this: “My shell got wet and my falsies were showing.”

Unaware of my fear of closing an umbrella, especially an oversized vintage one, Hilary got, shall we say, very annoyed when I plopped my drippy body into her vehicle but failed to close my umbrella. This, after she’d left me stranded in the rain on the roadside while shooting a surreptitious film of me from the top of the hill.

Despite dreary weather, lots of foolery and a dash of cantankerie, Hilary and I had a fabulous time at Spruce Point Inn and Resort. Charming and tranquil and classic and classy, complete with a nostalgic Maine vibe, the inn, the cottages, the lodges, the restaurants, the views, the grounds, the pools and the people — all of it was spectacular, just as it has been for more than a century. But that’s not the end of the story.

In 1962, a postcard writer summed up her visit to Spruce Point Inn:

“All is just wonderful, right on the water, super food, recreation, etc. You would love it.”

Indeed, Hilary and I did love it, every minute of it, yet I do have one regret:

I wish I had climbed into that tub.

“Sink or swim,” Hilary would have said, and she’d be right, but surely at the last moment, just as the bath water turned tepid and my hands became water wrinkly and mottled, surely just then, that real live handsome boat captain would have sailed through the bathroom door, grabbed a large bath towel, and hoisted me out of the tub.

POSTSCRIPTS FROM THE LEDGE (AND THE HEDGE)

I hope we’ve conveyed what a coastal treasure Boothbay’s Spruce Point Inn and Resort truly is.

Please check out more of our Spruce Point Inn sponsored content at these links:

Listen: https://www.mymothersdiaries.com/mymotherspodcast

Follow Us!

Instagram / mymothersdiaries

TikTok / mymothersdiaries

Also, give a listen to our latest podcast episode featuring our experiences at the inn:

https://www.mymothersdiaries.com/mymotherspodcast

And be sure to check out this link which opens with a photo gallery showcasing the resort:

https://www.sprucepointinn.com/

Finally, a HUGE shout-up to Captain Rodney, who was such a good sport! If you’re lucky enough to stay at Spruce Point Inn, sign up at the front desk and take a whirl in his boat.