An acorn bonks you on the head, you think the sky is falling and race around telling everyone. But nothing bad happens. What version of Chicken Little were you told?
I need, and refuse to own, a navigational system with a robotic voice saying turn left here, go 200 yards, bear right, etc., etc. I am under the stars, benighted in the shallows, churning up mud, with time and tide running out.
The images of Christmas that came to us fused and confused geographies, histories, and iconographies: the stony, semi-arid, goat- and sheep-herding Holy Land with its jumbled, inhospitable terrain; the deep-forested European north, where the dire winter cold and darkness threaten to engulf the world forever.
I love, honor, and respect almost everything about Maine except its license plate. There is something abject about Vacationland, as though the state had no substance.
On the highway between Solon and Bingham, a sign indicates you’re exactly equidistant between the equator and the North Pole.
I fantasized about constructing myself some kind of nest and living up there, weightless, surrounded by the sun-dappled dancing of the leaves and looking down on life.
A friendship that reaches across generations is too rare a thing — and its lessons are too valuable to ignore.
No matter the evidence (or lack of it), fantastic creatures will always roam the Maine woods.
If Jeremiah was a bullfrog, he would be a good friend of Paul’s — never mind how loud he was at night.
It’s the season for finding reasons to remain indoors and stationary, but one bold Mainer will no longer be deterred. (Or will he?)
Real talk: Maine winters aren’t nearly as bad as we act like they are. So cheer up! (And don’t close up shop!)
Big blizzards have a way of getting bigger in the telling. Maybe it’s because they reassure us that we are not alone.