Mike and I have been to Maine a number of times. In fact we spent our honeymoon there. We were heading for Nova Scotia...in mid-June 1996, and we stopped in Maine for the night. I was so cold, I was wearing all sorts of layers, and we decided not to go farther north than Acadia. We were tent camping, and it was raining, as is often the case for the state of Maine. It rained, I believe, 14 out of the 16 days we were gone. It didn't dampen our spirits, though.
Waking in the heavy morning mist in a Bar Harbor campground, I was drawn to the see the water. I woke Mike up. He's a night owl, I'm a morning dove and he wasn't thrilled with getting up early. Being a good, brand new husband, he humored me and got up for a trek to the ocean. We marched down the damp, sandy road to the cliffside where the gulls screeched and the salt air was heavy with fog over the water. Suddenly there was the long, mournful sound of the foghorn. Oh! What a delightful sound that was! I was captivated. My insides somehow relate to minor key music, cellos, bassoon, and the wonderful melancholy tone of a fog horn.
We sat until the fog lifted and the gulls soared over the waves, singing without accompaniment from the distant horn that played the warning for sailors in the midst.
We must make it a point to visit Maine again...to eat the 'lobstah' and the New England clam 'chowdah', to feel the misty air, to smell the salt, to visit the lighthouses, and more important than all these, to hear the song of the foghorn that calls me now.
Waking in the heavy morning mist in a Bar Harbor campground, I was drawn to the see the water. I woke Mike up. He's a night owl, I'm a morning dove and he wasn't thrilled with getting up early. Being a good, brand new husband, he humored me and got up for a trek to the ocean. We marched down the damp, sandy road to the cliffside where the gulls screeched and the salt air was heavy with fog over the water. Suddenly there was the long, mournful sound of the foghorn. Oh! What a delightful sound that was! I was captivated. My insides somehow relate to minor key music, cellos, bassoon, and the wonderful melancholy tone of a fog horn.
We sat until the fog lifted and the gulls soared over the waves, singing without accompaniment from the distant horn that played the warning for sailors in the midst.
We must make it a point to visit Maine again...to eat the 'lobstah' and the New England clam 'chowdah', to feel the misty air, to smell the salt, to visit the lighthouses, and more important than all these, to hear the song of the foghorn that calls me now.
I found you! Love all the posts. You are at your best when unstudied and "rambling". Keep it up! I'll be back here.
ReplyDeleteGlad you enjoyed it, and I hope you will continue to, Mimi! You never know, but you may recognize yourself in one of these blogs one day! (Might change the names, though, to protect the innocent!)
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