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In the dark |
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by Gina Hamilton
Coastal Journal editor
Like all of you, we listened to the wind howl down at Turning Tide Cottage on Thursday night, and like most of you, we lost power around midnight. No problem. Been there, done that, part of life in Maine. It was a little surprising when we woke up to an eerie half-power situation on Friday, but finally figured out that some of our neighbors’ generated power was flowing back into the lines. This probably wasn’t a good thing, so I put on my headlight (which is a wonderful device, kind of like a small flashlight you wear on a headband. But Chris makes a lot of fun of me for my attachment to the thing, although I am not sure why) and headed down to the ancient root cellar to shut off the main power to avoid the dreaded Voltage Spike when the power was finally turned back on.
However, I couldn’t get there. The retaining wall had slipped, and I wasn’t able to squeeze through. (Chris was, but that’s neither here nor there - ladies naturally have more padding on the regions that would have had to get through the maze.)
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Seed-time |
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by Gina Hamilton
Coastal Journal editor
Bear in mind I am writing this on Monday; by the time you read it, we may be knee-deep in snow again and back into winter with a vengeance. However, hope, like spring, springs eternal, and I for one am ready for the early spring that never came last year at all.
There is nothing like a gentle melt (and by this I mean the front lawn was an ocean of mud) to turn one’s thoughts lightly to gardening, and so it was that on Saturday afternoon, Chris and my son and heir and I sat around the living room going through the seed catalogs, trying to decide which ones we would soon order.
Seeds are a cheap date; you can place your order for ten bucks and if the weather isn’t conducive to even thinking about planting when they arrive, you can always forget to phone for a few weeks.
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Minor Forty-niner |
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by Gina Hamilton
Coastal Journal editor
My birthday is today, and I am continually amazed that it is more and more difficult to remember exactly how old I am without counting back to the year of my birth. As a child, I never had any trouble telling anyone my age. Now I have to stop and think about it, and also think about whether or not I am going to tell the truth about it. But I always do end up telling the truth (if I can remember my age) because almost immediately, I get comments like, “Oh, you can’t Possibly be That Old ... you look so much Younger!”
(For the record, I am 49. Whether or not I look younger than that I shall leave up to my readers’ kind thoughts. I am not fishing for compliments. Honestly, I am not. This is just Full Disclosure, as they say in the biz.)
In our family, we make a minor fuss over birthdays. We go out to dinner at the Birthday Person’s choice of restaurant, there are small gifts given and received and thanked for, and someone usually bakes a cake or buys one if they don’t want to bake it.
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