
You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall

A spate of dreams no doubt reflecting my {obsessed} drive to finish exterior painting projects before cold weather sets in. For example, I oversleep work, get to the office with just an hour left to edit and paginate wire pages. And then I discover they’ve moved the office, so I’m running through a building, up the stairs, opening doors, hoping to find the terminals and colleagues. (Recent Virtual Earth searches suggest the Review-Times building has been demolished and moved into the smaller addition; also, our quarters on Leonard Springs Road have been leveled, for a McMansion.)
Other dreams where I’m simply racing something, whatever …

If you see them, they’ll give you a sense of proportion for the experience of hiking the coastal trail at Quoddy Head State Park in Lubec.

Maybe this will help you locate them. There were five in the party, including a child, when we caught up with them.
It’s not just the scenery, either, though I am a visual person.
Sometimes it’s the fascinating people around me.
Or the fresh food on my plate.
Or an arts event I’m attending.
Or my life journey in general, with all of its twists from my native corner of Ohio.
Or waking up to a fine cup of coffee, even though these days it’s decaf.
Most of the time, the exclamation is one of joy, though there are a few others when it’s pure puzzlement.
Here? It’s nowhere like what I imaged much earlier on the way.
How about you?
The tide’s out.
Eastport and the neighboring towns are filled with fascinating characters, and it’s been delightful getting to meet so many of them in my new community.
One thing I keep hearing the men say, though, is that they’re coming up on their 75th birthday and, well, they’re beginning to feel realities of getting older. No matter how physically fit they seem.
Gee, do I really think they look a little older than me? Or do I really look young for my age?
Even though I’ve been viewing this as my Diamond Anniversary?
Let me utter a big sigh.
Eastport’s fleet doesn’t use nets to fish. Rather, they use dragging gear or baited traps, mostly.
Technically, the bulk of what they catch isn’t fish, which are vertebrates, have gills, and lack limbs with digits. Fish fall into the scientific superclass of Osteichthyes, as noted in a previous Tendrils.
Shellfish, meanwhile, are invertebrates, have external skeletons, and are classified as molluscs, crustaceans, and echinoderms. See a more recent Tendrils.
So today, let’s look at what the local commercial fishermen catch. Or, in some cases, used to.

Let’s not overlook salmon, a major product here, which are farmed in pens and harvested directly by special boats using tubes that work something like a giant vacuum hose. Not kidding.
All but one of the state’s daily newspapers recently came under new ownership, but the surprise is that it’s not a mass-media corporation run by profit-squeezing accountants or, worse yet, investment brokers.
Instead, they now come under a non-profit committed to maintaining community journalism.
I’m hoping this is a wave of the future.
Curiously, it’s also something my last employer, the conservative New Hampshire Union Leader, turned to for continuation.
It will be vital to see how this plays out.



That’s how I heard “Appy,” for Appalachian Gap in Vermont’s Green Mountains.
These are from last summer. I hate to think what the route’s like now, after the recent record-breaking flooding.
Why is addiction
so much easier
than subtraction?