If I’m repeating myself, forgive me. I love Maine, you know I do. But don’t ask me what I did on my summer vacation, because I haven’t had one.

At least I get to work from home a lot of the time, so it’s almost like having a vacation.

That hasn’t stopped everyone else. One of the issues with living in a beautiful village where the population doubles in the summer is that half the people are on vacation. As I write this, at 7:41 p.m., music is blaring from the place it blares from this time of night most nights. I can hear shouts and boat motors, probably from people parked in their boats listening to the blaring music.

Speaking of which, I haven’t seen much of the people from away who occasionally visit their house across the street this summer. There was one night, however — a week night — when a group of about two dozen Millenials spent the night blaring music and shouting the F word until 2:30 in the morning.

And it wasn’t even good music. Are the kids being ironic when they blare Steve Miller at 2 in the morning, or have they just been bombarded with so much mediocre music the past two decades that they think he rocks?

I went over there one night three years ago — it was September, time for this foolishness to be over — when the man of the house was in the garage, which has been converted to a “man cave,” blaring — I’m not making this up — The Golden Girls. I listened for two hours — laugh track blah blah blah laugh track blah blah blah — then about 12:30 a.m. went over with my maglite flashlight, a jacket thrown over my pjs, and told him I had to get up in five hours to work. He seemed startled. I’m not sure if it was by the sight of me, or the fact that, yes, people do work in this town.

That’s right, don’t friggin’ wake me up. Took this selfie after I came back from scaring the hell out of the guy blaring The Golden Girls at 12:30 a.m. a couple Septembers ago.

So, to recap: Yes, the same house that kept me up on a work night blaring Steve Miller kept me up on a work night blaring The Golden Girls. To quote Dylan: If you don’t believe there’s a price for this sweet paradise, just remind me to show you the scars. (That’s Bob Dylan, not the guy who works the counter at Starbucks, kids).

His wife, the first time she backed into my neighbor’s mailbox and knocked it down, asked Dave (the neighbor) how often he’s here. “All the time,” Dave said. “I live here.”

In any case, I’m not complaining, even though it sounds like I am. It’s not lost on me that I get to spend my life in a spot that most people get to spend two weeks in and spend the other 50 weeks dreaming of being here.

And I get to work at home a lot of the time. And, I have to say, I don’t mind tooling around Maine for my job, either. There could be worse ways to make a living.

One recent day, I had to go to Millinocket and, even though my book is done, a character in the book drives from my fake town in Franklin County to Millinocket. I wondered what the  route was like.

Went from Millinocket to Belgrade via Somerset and Franklin counties a couple weeks ago, and I don’t regret the detour. This, I believe, is Moscow, Maine. Route 16 and nothing but scenery.

So, yeah, a little out of my way, but I drove it anyway. I didn’t regret it. No blaring music here. No laugh track. No idling boats. Just Maine.

I may not get any sleep, but I have a book! Yes I do. Take that, you loud vacationers.

Speaking of which, the third in the Bernie O’Dea mystery series. BAD NEWS TRAVELS FAST is due out October 31. You know, the time of year it’s nice and quiet.