The house you sit in and the ground you stand on are liquid assets. We hold a lease on life itself and on every other thing we think we own.
Joined07.28.16
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Franklin Burroughs is the author of the essay collections Billy Watson’s Croker Sack, The River Home, and Confluence: Merrymeeting Bay, which won the John Burroughs Medal for nature writing. He wrote Down East’s Room With a View column from 2016 through 2018.
For reasons reason cannot elucidate, some people in Bowdoinham keep guineas. They don’t eat them, can’t domesticate them, and have to feed and shelter them through the winter.
While it lasts, the fishing is — a window into the world that may open for a moment, grant you a glimpse.
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?
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.
On the highway between Solon and Bingham, a sign indicates you’re exactly equidistant between the equator and the North Pole.
Before myth became history, did foxes consider the trade-offs involved and cast their fate with ours, then think better of it?
The loon call so hauntingly transcends its purpose. The sound is full of eerie seeking, as of a lost soul for a lost world.
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.
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.
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.
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