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Saturday, June 24, 2017
Thursday, June 15, 2017 9:03 AM
The next few lines should bring a great sense of relief to my husband and children, as what I am about to spout will completely destroy any chance I might ever have, decades from now, should I get in mind to run for any . . .
  • Lists have completely taken over fluff journalism. You can’t submit a lightweight article such as “Scenic Hydroelectric Dams of Central Maine” or “Canadian-style flower arranging” anymore without getting a robot-generated . . .
  • The marine forecast did not make it particularly clear whether our ferry would make the round trip from Rockland. Matinicus Island ferries are mercurial beasts — erratic and irregular, occasional things . . .
  • As I write, two of our friends are doing some of life’s more important business. Conscious and aware as the time winds up, two who we are glad to greet and hail, both coincidentally named David, are surrounded . . .
  • I earned a “Do you want fries with that?” sort of liberal arts degree from one of those red-brick establishments that goes around offering scholarships to hungry-looking urchins from moribund sardine factories and . . .
  • This is a story about how cars sure aren’t the same as they used to be, and about swallowing one’s pride, and how we have good neighbors among the local Rockland merchants, and how sometimes our best intentions are thwarted . . .
  • Our daughter Emily had a handsome little maple tree growing outside her window as a child. The tree was a volunteer, something not uncommon around here as the big maples growing in the cemetery “next door” send out their . . .
  • At 4:40 p.m. on March 14th, four hours into the snowstorm, the power went out. Thankfully, we’d already had a little “power bump” a couple of hours earlier, just a quick blink, which served as a reminder for me to draw off a few . . .
  • A few days ago the post office in Winthrop, Maine, burned down. Permit us, the people of Matinicus Isle Plantation, to express our sorrow and understanding to the residents of Winthrop. We had the same thing happen here . . .
  • As we get through our little bit of hard-core winter, my favorite thing in life may be something I haven’t got. This thing that makes me smile is an absence, a negative, a trouble that isn’t mine: I do not have to commute. . . .
  • We hear, or read, in the marine forecast that the wind is “gusting to 45 at the buoy, with 19-foot seas every 11 seconds.” What does that mean for daily life, if you aren’t out to sea in a fishing boat? To me, it hopefully means I can stay home . . .
  • Along with half a million other columnists I have made offhand mention this month of the national silliness of resolutions, New Years’ type, one each, size large. As we are continuously hustled on television by a diet industry and by . . .
  • I know what I should resolve. Going with the traditional guilt-inspired self-improvement theme, I ought to watch my language, eat my vegetables, clean up the dooryard, and stop interrupting. We’ll see. . . .
  • Monday the 26th of December is, or used to be anyway, celebrated in certain mostly British parts as Boxing Day, a day for giving a present or a gratuity to those who do all the usual and routine jobs that keep civilization — or one’s . . .
  • I like Christmas concerts, especially loud ones. Living on this island limits participation in organized seasonal merriment to a certain extent, but I try to get to some sort of music each year, be it the Portland Symphony or the Freeport . . .
  • This time of year the pleasant, sunny days become a bit more valuable, and aren’t to be thoughtlessly squandered on paperwork and indoor improvements. A blue-sky, no-wind day this late in November is not when . . .
  • Around Thanksgiving we get appropriately sentimental and, if we are wise, give some consideration to reasons for gratitude. I’ll leave the mush and slobber to Hallmark, the friends and family stuff to the Butterball ads and alehouse ...
  • The venerable line about the role of the journalist being “To comfort the afflicted and to afflict the comfortable” was never intended — by Edward R. Murrow or anybody else who said it — to mean “It is the role of anyone with . . .
  • As I write, we are enjoying the first fire of the year in the kitchen stove, we just had a gust of 48 mph, and the lights just blinked. The weather report is “You can’t get there from here.” Weatherman says the rain will be done in . . .
  • Because I venture off this island for so many different reasons, I get asked the usual questions on a fairly regular basis. To tackle the unanswerable question “How many people live on that island?” one more time feels . . .
  • Doctor Bob, so called, was a scientist and a clown, a stilt-walker in parades, a nerd and a jester and an antique tractor buff, a mechanic and a Ph.D., a survivor of much, a genius and an oddball and a sort of unrelated uncle . . .
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