Read. It's good for the soul!

I am and have been reading voraciously.  I can not seem to get my fill of so many different, revealing, personal, touching and unique ways that writers write. I have allowed myself to become the flesh and breathing of characters in the books I have read, so much so that I cry and laugh out loud when the characters in the books do so.  I allow myself to block out the chair in which I am sitting, the treadmill on which I'm walking, the view out my window so that I may sit in a chair in the book, walk down paths I would have never walked down, and see out my window the view of the town, village, city, street, room that I have suddenly been welcomed into. I am happily, magically, completely overwhelmed with desire, pain, happiness, and oneness to each setting/character(s) into which I melt  The voices around me, dialects new to my ear--seem so strangely familiar.  New smells and aromas, colors and sounds fill my world, my thoughts, my passion, my need to be able to put down on paper words that will evoke those feelings and complete surrender of readers to my writing.  If you've not read these books, you surely must....
.The Help by Kathryn Stockett, Little Bee: A Novelby Chris Cleave, and the one I am currently reading that has brought me to snorting guffaws of laughter and heart-wrenching sobs of sorrow One Vacant Chair: A Novel (Graywolf Press) by Joe Coomer.  Joe Coomer is magical. His characters will reach out their hands and beckon you into their lives. This is his latest. He has many others.  No doubt I will read them all.

I am hearing from many sources that to be a great writer you must read, read, and read some more.  I've come to think 'So many books, so little time'.  Read, it's good for the soul!

"Ba Haba"

You simply cannot live in Maine and never make your way someday to Bar Harbor on Mt. Desert Island.  It's a must see, but probably more memorable in the dead of summer when the tourist are packed like sardines on sidewalks, in hotels, bed and breakfasts, cottages and beautiful huge mansions.  Although the folks taking up summer residence in the fairyland homes with the breathtaking views of the Atlantic Ocean are probably not considered (nor do they consider themselves) tourists.  They are summer residents from far away places.  Their summers are probably more spent behind the privacy fences in their luxurious "summer homes".  But I could be wrong. They may well love the hustle and bustle of the crowds that overtake this paradise island from the 2nd week in April until Labor Day.


We chose to go a couple of weekends ago. Easter weekend. One of the last weekends before the quiet goes away. Hotels and business were putting on the final touches and signs heralded the approaching season and the opening of those establishments.
 
The ride up US 1 is interesting.  All along the way there are the rows and rows of white coffins some in a line, some squeezed in this way and that. At least that is what the boats with white shrink wrapped tarps in every port along the way looked like to me. Coffins or rows of soldiers waiting patiently for their unveiling when they could once again breath life into themselves and the men and woman that captain them.

As we drove up the sun was beating in through the passenger's side window toasting my right ear and face.  The warmth penetrated the window.  I closed my eyes and let myself feel the wet sand as the water laid itself in lapping motion against the shore.  I could smell the salt wafting off the water through the air. The warmth and my imagination transformed me from the car to a warm tropic beach.

Our trip took us through Brunswick past the St. John's Parish Hall and the strangely named St. John The Baptist Catholic Church.  We scooted past the Wylie Gallery-Contemporary Craft and the stop light at the "Town Mall".  Then on past Bowdoin College with it's lovely campus and painstakingly cared for old buildings. Brunswick is a town with lovely old homes.  Not far down the road (or should that be up the road) is the town of Bath, home of Bath Iron Works where they build huge ships for the United States Navy.  We waved hello as we past the Morring B and B and the Taste of Maine. We noticed that Suzie Ater had her sign out on a few houses for sale.  We traveled up over the bridge that brought us to some wet lands.  We went out past the Ledgeview Road following the meandering of U.S. 1.

The Shelter Institution and Montsweag Farm brought us into Wiscassett past Simpson's Seafood and a sign advertising "Solar Clothes Dryers"...(Is that a fancy name for a clothes line?). Another turn of the road held the sign to the Two Bridges Regional Jail, Blue Haven, and Big Al's Super Value. Wiscassett is Small Town USA.  The road curves on down a hill past some lovely homes, past the Lincoln County Sheriff's Office, "Real Eats" and the water of the Sheepscot River glistening like jewels lulling us right into Edgecomb.  6 miles from New Castle overlooking the Sheepscot River was a beautiful salt water farm. At the cut off to Booth Bay Harbor, up on the hill, sat Cod Cove Inn.

That took us into lovely little Maine town of Damariscotta.  Right on past the Pioneer Motel on the left and a church with no steeple.  Well actually the steeple was there next to the church, on the ground, surrounded with scaffolding.  Right in front of the church was a huge sign with a huge goal line set on it and the words that said it all: RAISE THE STEEPLE.  Beckoning us on were the signs to Nobelboro and Waldoboro, past the Duck Puddle Campground, Moody's Diner that has been there for years.  As usual, business was booming. Waldoboro passed in the blink of our eyes and all along the way there were antique stores with memories for sale.  We went through Warren and Thomaston that was established in 1605.  Thomaston is the home of the old Maine State Prison known as "Tommy Town" and on down the road was the General Knox Museum.

 The afternoon found us in Rockland home of the Dragon Cement Co. claimed in the Indian Claim Settlement.  The road dead ends and turns right into the Atlantic Ocean (well it doesn't turn right into the Atlantic...it turns right....looking right into the Atlantic).

We saw the Samoset Resort overlooking the ocean and the lighthouse with entry by way of a breakwater.

You just know there are people in these little quiet, picturesque, quaint little towns looking out their kitchen window at the glorious awesome view of the ocean thinking ' in a matter of weeks there will be throngs--masses of people, shoulder to shoulder tourists, all trying to squeeze out of a weekend or 2 weeks, a month, a summer-- whatever amount of time their real lives allot them --the joy and postcard fantasy that I know as home'.

Out of my window passed Camden with its old mansions that speaks of big old money.  When we rolled past Linconville, the fog rolled past us.  But as we neared Northport and moved north away from the water, the sky opened to a tender blue being kissed by sunshine.  You could see all the way to heaven.

I spied a bald headed man with a beard that hung down to his waist.  He looked like he had been sitting there on that porch for as long as the old house had been there.  Sitting and rocking as the world whizzed by.

On past Searsport where we saw an old house that had literally crumbled into itself.






Then up over a bridge to Bucksport and the Jonathan Buck Monument.  We stopped at the cemetery to see the tombstone and read about the legend of  Captain Buck 

Ellsworth seemed more commercialized and there were huge signs advertising the GREAT MAINE LUMBERJACK SHOW on U. S. 3-- not opened for the season--yet.

The water along our trip was ever-changing.  In some places it was in constant motion, some places with white caps...other places like sheets of glass.  All a writer's paradise.

This is the ride up the rugged coast of Maine. Beautiful, serene, quaint, post card picturesque.  This was the road that took us to Bar Harbor.

For the most part on this Easter weekend, Bar Harbor was closed.  The season not yet "open".  The hotels still stood silent.  The stores and parks and sidewalks patiently waiting, all being buffed and polished and readied for all that the coming weeks and months would bring.  We were able to see the exhibit at the Abbe Museum by a breathtakingly poignant  writer Mihku Paul Anderson that I met at a writing workshop at UNE. Mihku  We were able to take a beautiful ride around the island and into a small part of Acadia National Park that was opened. I was mesmerized by the beautiful homes, by water trickling down the mountain sides; trails of water rushing to become one tiny stream, tiny streams rushing together to become one small creek, creeks rushing to the river that poured into the bay that swirled around the rugged coast of Maine and into the Atlantic Ocean.

The solitude, the fresh air, the ducks bobbing like tiny white buoys in the water. The foam of the water slapping against the jutting rocks.  I sat on the edge of a mountain in the park and thought what a writer's paradise this was--a writer's paradise surrounded by nature where imagination doesn't have to ask permission to run wild.

Someday we will go back when the season is in full swing, when the traffic is bumper to bumper, when there are lines outside the restaurants and ice cream parlors, when the hotels, motels and bed and breakfasts are filled to capacity.  We'll be there when there is laughter in the air, walkers on the trails, boats and tours and people--lots and lots of people. None of that was there this weekend but it was perfect for us.  It was what we needed. A quiet escape, a long easy ride up a beautiful coast.  This weekend started out to be about the destination, but it turned out to be about the journey.....and really isn't that what's important.

When Whoever's in New England's Through With You....

I'm a southern girl. Born in New Orleans. Became an adult in south Texas (after years of traveling). I miss the sticky heat, the drawl, the smell of good Tex-Mex food (heavy sigh), the fields of Blue Bonnets this time of year , the slow pace, the warm smiles, moss dripping like gray cotton candy off the branches, the warm pungent seductive aroma of the magnolias....the grits....ahhh the south.

But as I was driving to work this morning and the rain was trickling down my windshield, I could see tiny buds on the trees and tulips valiantly pushing their little green hands out of the ground as if to say, "hey, hello, we're back--spring is on the way."  That's the thing about New England.....the very distinct seasons.  The Spring that brings renewal, hope and a sense that you can start anew no matter what the past has dealt you.  The Summer with it's relative coolness and just a hint of heat so you can say, ah yes, summer.  Fall in New England, need I

say more.....crisp air, brilliant reds, yellows, golds and every variation in between as Mother Nature celebrates before bringing out her winter coat.

And of course, Winter, white, cold, blustery, sometimes frustrating, sometimes wonderland, always long.

I always learn so many things no matter where I live. The south gave me warmth in the air and in my soul. The north gives me hope and compartments of time in her seasons. Time to work through things and time in which to look forward.

I am trying as I've been taught--to bloom where I am. To savor my surroundings and dig in. To call it 'home' no matter where I find myself. To 'find myself' in the world where I exist at any given time.

Every place is beautiful. Every place is full of history. Every place has something I'll remember and miss when I'm not there. Every place a potential story just waiting to be written.

I'm a southern girl and I miss the south....but for now I'm a northern girl and I'm here till 'Whatever's in New England's through with me'. If the time ever comes that I go back south, on some morning when I'm driving and the rain is trickling down my windshield, I'll hear New England whispering (to paraphrase the song) "You know its not too late 'cause you'll always have a home to come back to"