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.
A friendship that reaches across generations is too rare a thing — and its lessons are too valuable to ignore.
If Jeremiah was a bullfrog, he would be a good friend of Paul’s — never mind how loud he was at night.
Real talk: Maine winters aren’t nearly as bad as we act like they are. So cheer up! (And don’t close up shop!)
Assimilation shouldn’t mean leaving your language behind.
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.
No matter the evidence (or lack of it), fantastic creatures will always roam the Maine woods.
It’s the season for finding reasons to remain indoors and stationary, but one bold Mainer will no longer be deterred. (Or will he?)
Big blizzards have a way of getting bigger in the telling. Maybe it’s because they reassure us that we are not alone.
Call it a fashion faux pas, but this Mainer is standing by his utterly predictable L.L. Bean wardrobe.