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South Haven and Annandale are the towns nearest to Torroemore.


An estimated 1,000 people turned out on a frigid night in Annandale Monday, Dec. 13, to greet the Canadian Pacific Railwayís Holiday Train and donate items of food to the Annandale Area Community Food Shelf. The 12-car train, outlined in thousands of lights and with a Christmas tree atop the locomotive, pulled to a stop at the Oak Avenue crossing near Annandale Memorial Park.

Auntie Sue and her daddy.

Patti, Florence Hotze (Flo’s mom) and Diane.
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Michael, Patti and Diane. The year? A long time ago. The event? Might have been a Canning anniversary celebration. Why post it? I stumbled onto yet another box of old photos as I was cleaning our guest room, preparing for Susan’s arrival on Friday.
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Steve Howard and the Accidentals playing at last Thursday night’s opening at Frederick Scott Gallery in Sudbury. Not pictured: Matt, Robby, Diane, Chris, Mark, and Caroline.
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What is this? No idea? Click here

Steven, innocently, sent me this photo of the Golovcsenkos taken at Mark and Judy’s new house. Clockwise: Simon, Annie and Steven, Mark’s mother,Judy, Mark, Mark’s wife, Judy, my co-conspirator, Steven’s brother, Igor and Karen.
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Peter and Patti’s daughter, Kate.

Rick and Eileen Cote, nearby neighbors and close friends of Peter and Patti, invited us all to their house for Thanksgiving. The dining table sagged under the weight of food prepared by the Coteís, which included TWO turkeys cooked by Rick, and assorted dishes brought by guests. Mary Hopkins sent us north with her creamed onions and sweet potato casserole as well as Charlieís perfect corn muffins, and Karen Grojean and Linda Laughland made apple pies.
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Charlie’s perfect muffins presented at dinner, but oddly, not an even number.

Robert always washes our Thanksgiving dishes – is there a more thankless task? Here he is continuing the tradition at the Cote’s. He oughta get a medal.

A mighy fine rakkity discovery . Helen Virginia, click on the link, go have coffee and a nap, and then come back. They are worth waiting for. The bottom of the page links are impressive too.

They are rumors, not yet debunked by snopes.com, that the Beartooth II saga is nearing completion.

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Bob Hopkins responding to his brother-in-law, David’s toast. My toast preceeded his, and I’d like to think I softened Bob with more from The Limerick Machine:

Bob could see he’d not been understood
“Orange cake with orange frosting is good!
Mary, don’t blow your lid –
it’s what I loved as a kid
Takes me back to my days in the ‘hood!”

Young Bob’s days in Deerfield were bliss
But an off year his new wife did not miss
Finding one old bad grade
But one comment was made:
“Geez, I thought you were smarter than this.”

There once was a shrink, name of Bob
Who thought he did quite a fine job
‘Til a patient named Daisy
Said, “I’m not stupid, just crazy!
Find someone less discerning to rob!”

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Add cold weather and rain to this landscape and you can see why Mark Schreiber pushed so hard two years ago for a change in venue. He had just returned from Glacier National Park (this reminds me, Rakkity, how about Beartooth II?), having hiked in view of the majestic peaks, under the endless deep blue skies.

The truth is, most of our Maine camping trips look like this. It is a testament to our photographic and editing skills (Adam, Dan, me), that each year we produce a travelogue the Maine Chamber of Commerce would pay to have.

I snapped this shot as we were leaving our campsite, after the colorful tents had been removed. Note, reflected in the water, the wonderful gray ceiling, an armís length away, and all the vibrant fall colors long gone.

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

– Stanley Kunitz