Sea Glass and Scrap Iron Blog Archive 2007
As I write, we've just had the first snowstorm of the season, and it wasn't that big a deal. The guys went around with each other about whether or not to plow the roads; some thought it a waste of money as it wasn't really necessary, while others wanted it done, and it was. In the end, it was probably good for the town truck; it got a work-over and some maintenance. Some of the guys just went out with their own trucks for the heck of it. I confess with some sheepishness
As I write, it is Monday December 3rd, and the first big snow of the year. Eric called early in the morning from Bethel, as delighted as a little child. It takes a lot to make a seventeen-year old get all bubbly. The promise of a foot of fluffy snow does it.
Such is rarely the weather of islands.
I have described in other places the absurdity inherent in trying to force our realities onto the template of a large municipality; how that department of the state which oversees such things wants us to make every two-step procedure into a ten-step procedure involving electronics, and how reporters like to
There was an essay in Newsweek a few weeks ago about this raft of books out with titles which knock off "Year of Living Dangerously;" where writers of sufficient moral fiber and with patient spouses challenge themselves through a year of living Biblically, or eating locally, or doing without the manifold manufacturers of China, or whatever. The assumption is, and it seems to prove out, that people enjoy reading the details of somebody else going to a fair bit of trouble, in mind to make a point
If you are not here, you might wish that you were.
If you are not in Maine this middle part of September, if you have left already, or are trapped indoors in a classroom or an office, you might have cause to wonder if perhaps next year, you might take your vacation at another time. Perhaps not mid-summer. Perhaps September.
I like to write, from time to time, in the "old style" exemplified by Jim Parker of Spruce Head years ago with his "if you can't
Things are already quieting down. The passenger boat captain came by for his last cinnamon rolls, speaks of how it drops right off after Labor Day. Electricity use is way down too, says the man who tends the powerhouse. The maple trees over in the cemetery are already showing a hint of color. The Jerusalem artichokes are nearly what they will become, behind the foundation to the hoped-for blacksmith shop. (It'll be too bad if I block my own view of these glories
Now, you have to understand that aside from Victoria's organ accompaniment on a few summer Sundays, and unless Dennis happened to be playing his electric guitar in his trap shop out behind his house, and might possibly once or twice a year have a couple of his buddies out with drums and stuff to jam together, Matinicus
After the third neighbor asked this same question, we realized we were becoming something of a spectacle. I was making trips up and down the main road with friend John's Mitsubishi and almost wished I had thought to do this under the cover of darkness. This wasn't just "dirt," it was gravel. Gravel is starting to become as valuable and treasured on Matinicus Island as cash, check, a dozen roses or a hot pizza off the airplane. My little pile of gravel riding down
I suppose we might. We've got "the greep bird," anyway.
Before everybody's beloved peepers begin their annual post-mud-season chorus, bringing us outside of an evening to listen on the doorsteps, grinning like idiots, and even before the crocus and the chionodoxa emerge, the robins show