I am back from Maine. It has been almost five years since Brian and I have been together, and it was lovely to have a partner in crime. It’s always so funny coming home again, though. I fly into Boston and am deposited into a whole different world, and then I fly out again and am deposited in my own life in California. There is no transition, and no in-between. Just one dichotomy and then the other
Maine was gorgeously green this time. The humidity clung to us, but there was a light breeze most times that if you could catch it would blow the mugginess away. The mosquitos bit, but I did not get munched by a green-headed fly even once. That is a victory. We hiked on forest trails that suddenly rounded a bend and became a secluded bay; trees and calm waters stretching as far as you could see. Maine is a place to eat your weight in halibut and lobster, watch the fisherman chug through the Gut on their boats, and watch the brilliant stars in the sky. Life trickles by like a stream.
Back in California, I went to work on Monday morning in a dry heat. The drought has made things so brown out here. I raced freight trains to work in a sea of concrete and other cars, and then I went into my air conditioned building and froze. I came home to a cuddly black cat in the window, dinner made from my home-grown tomatoes, and a very handsome husband burning sweet incense in the back room (for his weekly meditation). The streetlights are so bright they drown out all but the most persistent constellations. My four-poster bed is the perfect combination of soft and firm.
I will be back to some semblance of a regular blogging schedule ASAP, but I have had to play massive amounts of catch-up at work (to the point where all I want to do at the end of the day is collapse). In lieu of a full post, please accept this collection of photos from the trip. Bookishness will recommence next week. And incidentally, if you are ever in Damariscotta, their bookshop is full of wonderful. They don’t have the biggest inventory, but they have everything I’ve been drooling over online for months (Laura Ingalls Wilder autobiography, anyone?), and local stuff that is hard to find (Maine historical atlases). I wanted to stay for months and spend a fortune. You should go.
Casey E. Hamilton 