You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Somehow, the sea looks metallic here. Just what would you call that range of colors?
Well, it does remind me that the Greeks lacked a word for blue. So did many other ancient civilizations, but let’s not get into a discussion of why.
For more schooner sailing experiences, take a look at my Under Sail photo album at Thistle Finch editions.
This pause in our renovations seems like an ideal time to reflect on the ways this project builds on much earlier dreams and becomes, perhaps by default, their culmination.
My junior high art teacher instilled in me a love of 20th century contemporary architecture as well as Japanese and Scandinavian art and culture. That dovetailed into Shaker traditions that had once existed just down the street from us and a county or two south as well. Plainness, exemplified by Quaker, Mennonite, and Brethren history is in my blood and bones, as I’ve learned digging into genealogy.
Add to that an appreciation for William Morris’ arts and crafts movement, which infused the bungalow I eventually owned in the Rust Belt, and my exposure to historic New England styles, including Queen Ann.
And then a sense of neighborhood, too.
Had you asked me at the outset where I wanted to live, I would have responded central city, perhaps in a high rise, or out in the wilderness, perhaps beside a mountain lake or stream. What was clear that suburban was nowhere in my preference.
So here I am in a historic sea captain’s home a block from the Atlantic yet at the edge of a funky downtown and arts scene and – utterly amazing, to me – within minutes of forest, lakes, and streams.
When I sit in our second-floor rooms, the heart of our renovation project, I have moments of feeling the best of both worlds. In following the new roofline for our ceilings, we’ve avoided creating boxes as the rooms. One criticism of so much architecture objects to “boxes with holes cut in them.” Rather than boxiness, sometimes I’m reminded of the contours within a ship’s hull or a sail overhead.
This time of year, I’m reminded, too, of the flurry of work just before the previous two Christmas celebrations. It got chaotic, up to six tradesmen at one time. We were tripping over ourselves as the rest of the family started showing up.
Throughout it all, we had the ongoing Viking Lumber deliveries, mostly with Tim driving. And our wonder at having the right contractor after all of the delays.
So here we are with the continuing surprise of the historical significance of the house, not just that it was 80 years older than it had been claimed, but that it had been so central to what has evolved here.
As our mason once asked, “How much is enough?”
For now, let’s leave it at that.
The Dr. Albert Lincoln homestead along U.S. 1 in Dennysville presents an iconic image from the Civil War era, if you catch a view while driving past. Today the well-maintained second home is also a working cattle farm.
When you think of a tall-masted sailing ship, it’s probably like this, one with squared masts and rectangular sails. This one does have a gaff aft sail, resembling the sails on a schooner.
Square-rigged ships did require larger crews than did schooners and sloops, and they weren’t as agile in the wind, but they could carry more cargo.
As for the bird in the nest atop the rock outcropping? I think it’s an osprey.
Welcome to Rockland Harbor.
Mine is a family of booklovers, which means we need bookshelves everywhere in our renovated home. Make that two homes, considering the younger daughter and son-in-law, too, in their new purchase in suburban Boston. To that let me add one friend, a famed author, who had so many volumes stored in his Maine barn that one corner collapsed, according to the New York Times Sunday magazine. I’m not prepared for that possibility here in our historic house.
Still, this gets painful as we prepare for triage. What volumes must each of us keep, which ones become optional, and where will all of the remainder go?
On my end, after much culling, I’m finding my eyeballs no longer support the small type in many paperbacks, many of them with binding that is crumbling.
Gee, I’d never thought it would come to this. Take a deep sigh before they are trashed.
The other partners in this move will have to explain for themselves.
The Orange River in Whiting is becoming a prime wilderness water trail for canoeists and kayakers. The nature preserve, with holdings from several different organizations, is accessible principally by water.
The broad surface at the stern of a ship is called a transom. Usually above the waterline, it gives strength and width to the back of the vessel.
For more schooner sailing experiences, take a look at my Under Sail photo album at Thistle Finch editions.
Ours has long been described as a cold house, at least through winter, even before we discovered how much heat had been leaking into upstairs despite attempts to seal that off. Now that our bedrooms are actually up there, it’s on longer considered a problem.
Or, as our contractor quipped, back then folks believed in letting a house breathe. Uh-huh. They did burn a lot of firewood.
Once we had a wood stove in place, we resolved to see how well that worked in our revamped place and make adjustments from there.
Our existing blown hot-air furnace is definitely inefficient. It even lacks an air filter. Like much of New England, it runs on pricy fuel oil. Beyond that, it’s also vulnerable to Maine’s notorious electrical outages. No electricity, the thermostat’s useless.
An obvious improvement would be turning to a heat exchanger, perhaps one tied into our existing downstairs duct work, though that would still be vulnerable to electrical outages. Or outrages, if you will.
The conversion would also work for cooling the house come summer, as needed. Not that we have many days like that, living on an island as we do.
In addition, we have those rotting downstairs sills to contend with, and the obsolete triple-track often badly out of whack storm windows and screens, plus the front and back doors.
As for cold intrusions? Who can be sure they’re really not ghosts?
We’ll do what we can at each step ahead.
One of the sensations in watching a full solar eclipse comes as the light seems to become more focused before going into twilight. I skip the discussion of optics and physics. Here’s how it looked in the trees around us in the April 2024 event here in Maine. Something similar happened with shadows.
Late afternoon at the former West Quoddy Coast Guard lifesaving station. The boathouse, lower right, sits at the edge of Lubec Channel, with Campolbello Island, New Brunswick running above it. A bridge, barely visible here, connects Canada to the United States, with the town of Lubec continuing along the water. You may even detect the “sparkplug” lighthouse sitting in the water. The city of Eastport, where we live, can be seen beyond the bridge.
Jnana's Red Barn 