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?
Arts & Leisure
A new compendium shows off the archival illustrations of Kate Furbish, Maine’s swashbuckling Victorian botanist.
Chief curator Jessica May chatted with us about what you need to know for your next visit.
From “Dog Days in Fort Kent,” by Elizabeth Peavey, in our February 1998 issue.
As a kid, I was afraid of Ida. And small wonder: stout and tall, with big hands and a severe face, she was every inch the forbidding Yankee spinster. My idea of Ida shifted slightly one summer morning when I was about 10 years old.
Two college kids create a full-blown musical — you know, in their spare time.
Once again, we asked this year for you to send us the photos that best represent your personal vision of Maine — and, man, did you ever respond.
How a physician’s assistant in Bridgton became Stephen King’s Hippocrates of horror.
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.
There’s a trace of the sacred in it — in the light, in the title — plus a hint of the absurd, the faintest whiff of the freewheeling nature of that day at sea.
Home is someplace between Walden and a woodstove.
From “Trekking on Rawhide,” by Robert Deis, in our January 1980 issue.