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Our trip to New Brunswick was everything I had hoped for.

Every time I cross the border from Calais, Maine, I remember the poem we learned in high school. "Breathes there the man with soul so dead - who never to himself hath said, ""This is my home, my native land!"" - who's heart hath ne're within him burned, as home his footsteps he hath turned from wandering in a foreign land.

It's hard to think of the states as a "foreign land" but apparently Sarah Palin agrees.

My brother John had his 70th birthday and we celebrated with a wonderful fun party. My older brother Philip came for a visit and we three were together again for probably the last time.

Helena, my best friend of sixty-eight years remains steadfast and loyal. We know each other so well that we that we have an unspoken link that binds us together.

The cottage where we stayed with my cousin Pat and her CLS (common law spouse)was just like Anne of Green Gables house. What a spectacular view of the St. Croix River.

We made a point of going over the new bridge between Calais and St. Stephen. It's pretty amazing that it finally got built after years of haggling between the two countries.

The customs office on the Canadian side looks like a big train station. It's worth seeing. We've been told that the customs on the American side is more like Fort Knox in keeping with terrorists and other unsavory characters who might try to infiltrate the states.

The reunion with my old high school friends was nostalgic. Some are no longer with us and our days are counting down. Familiar faces are lined with age but I see them as they were in 1957 when we had so much to look forward to.

The night before we left, I visited Mum and Dad's grave and said goodbye.

Endings are sad but there's always hope for new beginnings.