End of summer 2012 highlights reel

The Lobster Festival and the Union Fair

Four different houseguests, three days of sailing, two family gatherings, and a waxwing in the crabapple tree

Foggy Jonesport

A sailing trip Down East to Canada, just Himself and a friend from Outward Bound

Tostitos the Fish succumbed to galloping fungus and went to be with Jesus

Thing One had a fantastic summer as an apprentice on the schooner American Eagle

The mother of all seventh-grade-girls' sleepovers, aboard this 142' charter yacht whose captain happens to be Thing Two's friend's dad

Back-to-school shopping (ouch)

Three cords of wood delivered and needing to be stacked

And much, much more... but I've run up against my storage limit on this account, and life has changed enough since I started this little endeavor:  the kids are busier, my job is more demanding, and when the dishes are cleared and homework is done and I'm finally able to sit down of an evening, usually around 8.30 or 9, someone else is invariably using the computer.

So the blog is slowing down.    The occasional recipe or knitting project or shameless plug (which reminds me, I have one of those to share soon) or random thoughts.  

Thanks for following.

A Room with a View

I was in Portland last week for a manufacturing conference, which was held at the Holiday Inn by the Bay.

My room was on the fourth floor and it did, indeed, have lovely (if somewhat distant and fog-shrouded) views of Portland Harbor.

One was somewhat distracted, however, by the view in the foreground of the second-floor roof.

Which was a regular hangout for, and covered with the waste of, those pestilential herring gulls.

A small drama has been playing out in Rockland recently between an old dingbat who insists on feeding gulls, her neighbors, and the city fathers.

Said dingbat doesn't just toss out the odd crumb every now and again.  No.  We're talking cases and cases of bread, daily, and a scrum of hundreds of aggressive, defecating, squawking, extremely large birds, which trash not just the dingbat's yard but the neighbors' yards, while the neighbors are trapped in their houses to avoid the noise and mess.

Cars and window screens end up covered in caustic bird droppings.  Feathers blanket patios.  Small children are carried away bodily.

The city fathers got involved after a series of complaints.  A new ordinance was written.  The intrepid code enforcement officer has been going deep undercover to ensure compliance.  The old lady still believes she is within her rights, so continues to feed the gulls.

Of course after years of daily feedings, the gulls are going to show up in her yard no matter what.  Like they stalk fishing boats knowing that old bait is going to be tossed out.  They've got used to humans making their wretched lives easier.

(Take this guy, for example.  One of many at my Portland aviary which dropped by to nab a drink from the condensation draining off the rooftop HVAC units.)

Now the city is threatening fines of $2,500 per day and the dingbat continues to insist that she has to feed the damn things because - this kills me - she says they don't have anywhere else to go.

To all Rockland herring gulls, if the Camden Street Terrace smorgasbord dries up on you, may I suggest the thriving urban environment (and progressive food scene) 80 miles to the south?

Playing tourist

Our very dear friend, the Rev. Dr. D, came to see us for a few days.

This gentleman was the chaplain at my college way back in the day, and hired me as the chapel organist when I was a sophomore.

Then he retired and moved to Oregon.  But he came back to Pennsylvania to perform our wedding.

Then he moved back to Pennsylvania.

We've kept in touch.  He loves Maine and had been wanting to come back for a while, and we were one stop on his whirlwind summer vacation.

In spite of breaking his leg last October and being almost 80, he ran me more or less ragged.


Here's what we did over the course of two days:

Cooked a mess of lobsters, steamers, mussels and corn, and made an unholy and thoroughly satisfying mess of the kitchen.

Got ice cream at Dorman's and seafood at the Rockland Cafe.

(Not in that order.)

Went up the Penobscot Narrows Observatory and all over Fort Knox.

Visited the Penobscot Marine Museum.

Walked around Camden and drove up Mt. Batty.

Had a picnic lunch at Marshall Point.

Poked around the Olson House.

(I can completely understand how someone could get hung up on this place and spend a lifetime painting it.)

















Met up with Thing One on the schooner American Eagle.

Went sailing.


Visited my grandmother.


Took about a bazillion pictures.


Revisited old memories and made new ones.


Had a blast.

Scenes from a weekend sailing trip

Carver Cove, Vinalhaven.  I want that house.

Little Hen Island?  Big Hen Island?  Some island.  Vinalhaven-ish.

Some island, probably called Hen.

Starboard Rock, Winter Harbor, Vinalhaven

The Monument, Fiddler's Ledge, North Haven

2012 Great Schooner Race

Thing One called Thursday night.

The fleet was gathering and anchoring off the breakwater in Rockland Harbor, in preparation for Friday's Great Schooner Race.

It was a beautiful night.  

He asked us to come out.

(When your tall, confident, independent 15-year-old who has only been gone for four days calls and wants to see you, well, your heart lifts a little.)

So we grabbed Chinese takeout and Wilson the Agoraphobic Goldendoodle, tootled across the harbor, dropped the hook and enjoyed dinner and the view.

Thing One rowed over after the small boat races.

While he ate our leftovers, he filled us in on his adventures (which include going aloft, twice, untethered, while underway).

Snatches of sea shanties in three-part harmony drifted over from the Stephen Taber and each schooner fired off its cannon.

(Add cannons to Wilson's list of phobias.)

Friday morning was a beauty, too.  The schooners jostled for position by the starting line, off the lighthouse at the end of the breakwater...

...then spread out across the bay as they caught the wind.

The Schooner American Eagle making Owls Head

One can only imagine what it must have looked like a hundred years ago, when Rockland was a hub of shipbuilding and lime transport and the harbor was crowded with vessels like these, and much larger than these.

We're hanging on to a bit of history here.

Memorial Day in Camden

Memorial Day.

Before the tourists show up.  Before the mob scene in Thomaston every July 4th and before the giant commercial endeavor that is the annual Rockland Lobster Festival.  Memorial Day is an intimate, small-town celebration of heroes and each town honors its own.

In Camden, there is a small ceremony on the Public Landing

Then comes a parade, led by an Honor Guard and the Cub Scouts.

They paused here by the village green to lay a wreath at the veterans' memorial.

A moment of silence; a trumpet player stepped from the ranks of the high school band...

...and played Taps while the wreath was laid.

The rifle salute nearly caused Wilson the Agoraphobic Goldendoodle to spontaneously evacuate.

Then the parade moves on.  Thing Two is there in the center with the tenor sax.  By the time this day is out the kids from Camden Hills will have played for ceremonies in Rockville, West Rockport, Camden, Rockport and Lincolnville and marched in two parades.

There were old cars...

...and the Little Leaguers...

...and every single damn fire engine in the town department...

...and time to say thank you.

They're baaa-ack

Remember these guys?

Worked out great last year.  We're doing it again.  

Would you believe the couple who owns them has named every single one of them?  There are, like, two dozen of them.  Must be weird taking a packet out of the freezer that's marked "Q-Tip" or "Mr. Freckle."