Columns

On a warm August morning, it was Day One of the annual Orr's Island Library Book Sale and Library Fair on the front lawn. The young boy could barely see over the checkout table.

These days, few things in my life can evoke that adrenaline-soaked "fight or flight" response that is common to most animals. As I age, the situations in which that might happen are fewer and fewer.

Last fall, after multiple lockdowns and much social isolation, my work colleague Steve and I were ready for an adventure and an experiment. How hard would it be to drive a Tesla Model 3 across the U.S.?

What is a library? You don't have to pay to come in. You don't have to buy anything. You don't even have to read, if you don't want to. You can go just to think, or to be quiet. You can study or work there.

"I think there has always been a writer in me," Cate Wnek says, "but it was photography that took me on a nosedive into the pursuit of my creative curiosity." As the mother of two boys, Cate began photographing them playing on the floor as babies.

Sometimes the divide between horror and comedy is not so wide that you have to back up several feet and get a running start to jump across, and even then, feel your heel scrape against the emptiness of the chasm below as you land safely on the other side.

Watching "Stranger Things" made me question some of my life choices and I'm worried that I managed myself out of a lucrative career. "Stranger Things" hits all the fear buttons: slimy, crawly things; a dystopian dimension; Cold War intrigue; and supernatural predators consuming minds and bodies.

Pete was lunching along the shore of Cobscook Bay near Lubec, enjoying a fine view. Suddenly he felt a sharp sting, then another. Pete noticed tiny red ants crawling up his legs, clearly with painful intentions. He brushed them off, wondering what triggered the attack.

Once again, the humidity has descended upon us here in Maine. I thought for sure that it would be a short-lived heat wave, but I was wrong. As I listen to my air conditioner sputtering in the background, I contemplate what to make for supper.

More than 60 years ago, a 15-year-old neighbor taught me to smoke a cigarette. Thirty years later, I became a nonsmoker. Now, 30 years after that, I'm smoking again, but this time it's bovine protein getting blackened rather than my lungs.