When I turned sixty, seventeen years ago, my husband and I bought an old cape in Addison, a decidedly unupscale town far Downeast. The house sits on a knoll twenty feet above sea level and faces Eastern Bay. Lobster boats sit at anchor on the far side. In low tide, sandpipers, plovers and Arctic terns mill about on the rocky outcroppings. The house once served as the town post office and once as the town poor farm. Bob and I were, back then, contemplating lazy days of afternoon bridge and building sandcastles on the beach with the grandchildren.