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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.
About Me
- Jim Krosschell
- Retired publishing executive ecstatic with the idea of spending most of his time on the coast of Maine
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Thursday, September 22, 2016
New book coming
I'm pleased to say that Green Writers Press will be publishing a collection of my Maine essays next year, to be illustrated by my daughter. The proposed title One Man's Maine is a shameless rip-off of this blog, not to mention E.B. White. News of publishing progress - pictures, events, agonies, and thrills - will follow over the course of the next year.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
New England weather
On Monday I ate lunch outside on the deck.
Yesterday I didn't. It was snowing hard.
Today I ate lunch outside on the deck.
Yesterday I didn't. It was snowing hard.
Today I ate lunch outside on the deck.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Crowds
Living as we do half in suburbia and half in exurbia, we no longer encounter masses of people. The rule has been broken twice in the past month, once in December at the Cutler Majestic Theater in downtown Boston to attend Celtic Christmas Sojourn, and once yesterday to see the Dutch art exhibit at the MFA in Boston. I was delighted to find that hundreds of people crowded in small spaces can still behave most decorously and politely. The music and the art could be appreciated!
Well, almost. At the concert, a small boy a few rows behind us discussed his needs and wants quite loudly, and his parents did little about it until well after the intermission. At the MFA, a pair of older women gossiped about mutual acquaintances for several minutes, which may have been fine in the middle of the gallery, but not standing directly in front of a Vermeer. No amount of close approaches and craning of necks seemed to penetrate the discussion. People! There are only 35 of these in the whole world! Surely you can put aside the cares of Weston for a few minutes and think of the stars.
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