In Charlotte Customers' newspapers are reserved with named clothespins.

Days 3 and 4: Charlotte, Maine

For 66 years Aunt Nell (everyone in town calls her that) has been baking apple pies for one thing or another. Tonight is no different; she's pitching in at the town hall for the annual fire department supper. "You've got to be a good cook to live in this town." I steal a pickle when no one's looking. Nell's 78, but she's just the baby of the family. "My sister Mabel is 79. She's so happy; she got her first driving license." Apparently Mabel wasn't allowed lowed to drive when her husband was alive, not even the tractor. "But since her husband has passed on, she gets around pretty well."

This is a small community. Over at Hatton's store, just about every family in town has a personalized clothespin that's attached to the morning papers when they arrive. Ken Sawyer lives in town and maintains, "We may not have a gas station or a post office and such, but we're pretty rich."

And over at the town hall, Aunt Nell has done it again. Her pie is delicious.

"Is there a secret to your pies?"

"Naw... For me, the secret of anything I do is I don't have secrets."

Day 5: Somewhere near where Myra is supposed to be

"Myra?" The old timer pulled back his cap and scratched the top of his head (where all the good memories are kept). "Never heard of it."

We pulled into a gas station in Old Town to check with one of the attendants: "Yep, there it is on the map. Funny. I never heard of it, though."

Great. We started following an imaginary line, and now we were looking for what seemed to be an imaginary town. We were stuck. Steve was doing most of the driving, so I let him try to figure it out.

"According to this map I have, we can get there if we cut through this lumbering road, Stud Mill Road."

Steve pointed; I promised to pay attention. We headed south on Pickerel Pond Road and missed a turn over by Bear Den Hill. We must have missed a turn; by now we were too far east. We were by Alligator Stream.

"Steve, let's turn around by Dud's Pond."

"Yeah, we shouldn't have gone by Hinkley Brook."

We had been driving in circles for three hours on a lumbering road. It was dusty, but it was so hot we had to keep the windows down.

"Hey, Steve, stop the car. There's another one of those signs over there."

He got out of the car and came back.

"What'd it say?"

"It says we should keep our windows up -- the whole area is being sprayed with insecticide."

"Oh."

Days 6 and 7: Myra, Maine

We found the town, but nobody lives there -- it's mostly just camps. Myra is no more; the town was made up at one time of three families. When the various members moved out and moved on, the town just ceased to be.

"We're probably the only ones that live like we do, and even then it's just for the summer," said Beatrice Duplessis.

Beatrice and her husband Eugene enjoy their summers in a cabin that Eugene built in 1959 on their 120-acre site. "Course I bought the land about 1946 for $700."

Eugene and Bea complement each other; when we were there, Beatrice had just finished picking some raspberries. "Eugene plants, and I pick." They've been doing that for nearly 30 years. Besides planting the garden, Eugene (when he feels like it) takes care of what's left of the town cemetery which is on his land. "I keep the grass down when I can, and if I don't, well... I don't get any complaints."