|Peonies at the Ogunquit Museum of American Art|
Is it possible to fall in love at the age of five? Because if it is, I did. I loved so much about Maine, beginning at the edge of our backyard. Behind our brown plank house, in a yard with clumps of birch trees whose bark made perfect "paper," lay a bog. It was a magical place where I discovered peepers, tasted my first cranberries and stood peering into the depths of the murky pond. I marveled at the frogs' eggs gathered in gelatinous blobs, the beginnings of my education in biology and reproduction.
We didn't live in Maine for long; just three years, but enough for the landscape of the place to imprint itself on my consciousness; stretches of land with rocky outcroppings, white steepled churches, docks and piers heaped with lobster pots and fishing nets, the smell of ocean and the clack of clamshells.
|Rocky Coastal Beach, Hampton, N|
|Dogwood in the yard of a older home in Kittery, ME|
|Boats like clamshells at Kittery Point, ME|
| Weehawken Sequence, John Marin, circa 1916, 10" x 12.5," oil on canvas |