Maine infected me at the age of 12, in Brunswick, on a family trip from Minnesota. The bug was more or less dormant until I moved to Boston in the late 70s, spread a little in flirtations with the mountains and lakes of New Hampshire and Vermont, and now, with the bemused tolerance of my wife Cynthia Dockrell, has set in without cure.
The mantle over the woodstove holds a collection of objects we've found over the years, most of them driftwood and most of those symbolic. The more mobile of these recently got up to stretch their legs/fins (also, to be dusted) and allowed us to take their portraits. Introducing:
The dog (or perhaps fish, maybe dogfish?)
Tomorrow: in a moment of weakness, we allow some fraternization to occur (not X-rated).