I have been thinking quite frequently of Maine lately:
I remember the feel of pine needles under my feet and the way they covered the ground in a carpet of soft prickliness, the sun twinkling on the lake in the morning, running to the outhouse from my room, the bone chilling early morning cold even in summer, the moose that snuck up on me while juggling a soccer ball, first hearing 'Band on the Run' on a trip up I95 with my parents, the ripples as the lure hit the crystal clear water, food co-ops before they were fashion, lobster rolls and ice cream at the 'Barn', Perry's Nut House, the night so black I could not see my hand, square dancing, ping pong, writing on the wall, the smell of Maine blueberry pancakes and coffee in the morning at the dining hall, chopping firewood, cleaning septic tanks and working on the roof of the lodge, the day Elvis died.
