December 5, 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.

We get a lot of undeserved sympathy, we poor ballot clerks, when it is Election Day on Matinicus Island and the dusty Old Schoolhouse is filled with the smells of coffee and doughnuts.

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

September 19, 2007

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

September 14, 2007

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

Don't tell me we ain't got no culture on this rock. Why, this place is positively bursting with inspired performance (and that's just while you're standing around on the wharf.)

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

A short while back a handful of us converged on the Steamboat Wharf (not that there have been any steamboats in quite a while) at a moderately early hour and loaded our gear aboard the Robin, the small passenger boat that serves Matinicus Island and the surrounding area during the summer. (Or, I should say, one of the passenger boats, as there are a couple of others with good captains willing and able to ferry visitors to Matinicus and Criehaven, but they are based in other harbors.)

The

"Where'd you get the dirt?"

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