Sitting around the campfire two nights ago, our family collectively worked to come up with a name for our excursion.
"GRIM," my son offered.
"Grim?" my sister questioned. "Isn't that a bit negative?"
"It stands for Great Living in Maine," he countered, sticking with the acronym even when the spelling indiscretion was brought to his attention.
As fate would have, his moniker has proven sadly apt.
It is my duty to report that the clouds in Maine are not pink.
They are, um...dark. And plentiful.
It's a bit wet. And somewhat...grim.