The Maine
An artful dialogue about the wonders of the state.

Tuesday 207: Run Before The Wind

painting by Jessica Ives

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Jonathan Ives writes about sailing with his dad, Bobby IvesThis painting is from a day that Jessica and I went sailing with my dad and his wife Phyllis on the 26 foot Pierson they keep in Pemaquid Harbor. We sailed around John’s Bay and anchored off the northern side of Thrumcap Island, where the thread of life ledges blocked the winds and waves so we could eat a picnic. As we ate, I was distracted by the white caps that were building and recommended we get going. Jess is new to sailing and feels nervous when the boat really lists over. By the time we weighed anchor the winds and waves, which were from the southwest, had built up and it was a bit hairy running with the wind back into the harbor. Steering a straight course with a large following sea takes serious concentration to prevent an accidental jib. The mainsail would luff from time to time and we all waited for the boom to swing across, like a batter swinging for the ball.

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207 Paintings post everyish Tuesday around 5:30am EST on both The Maine and jessicaleeives.com. Save thirty percent on a 4×4 inch oil on panel painting by making your purchase within the first week of its posting. Instead of $300 pay just $207, a number which just happens to be the Maine state area code.

Tuesday 207 Paintings are exclusive to The Maine. They depict the land, the light and the people that make this state a state of wonder. Jessica is editor of The Maine and writes occasionally as The Outsider.

My Quiet House

by Linda Zeigler

In my quiet house
I sit like a gray Tabby cat
curled into myself
on the softest cushion
in the sunniest window
in my favorite room
watching the October sky.
Wind swept clouds
move like a slow motion story
across my mind.
Birds flutter
round the empty feeder
and my lazy heart frets
for their disappointment
but I can’t remember why.
I might never move from this spot
the birds will leave my yard
and it will grow dark
inside my quiet house.
I’ll cover myself with stars
and the wool plaid
draped across the chair
and I’ll wait and wait
for the sun to rise
and the softness of a new morning.

Tuesday 207: Fly Guys

painting by Jessica Ives

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I look into my fly box, and think about all the elements I should consider in choosing the perfect fly: water temperature, what stage of development the bugs are in, what the fish are eating right now. Then I remember what a guide told me: “Ninety percent of what a trout eats is brown and fuzzy and about five-eighths of an inch long.”

– Allison Moir, A Different Angle: Fly Fishing Stories by Women

There he stands, draped in more equipment than a telephone lineman, trying to outwit an organism with a brain no bigger than a breadcrumb, and getting licked in the process.

– Paul O’Neil

 

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207 Paintings post everyish Tuesday around 5:30am EST on both The Maine and jessicaleeives.com. Save thirty percent on any 4×4 inch oil on panel painting by making your purchase within the first week of its posting. Instead of $300 pay just $207, a number which just happens to be the Maine state area code.

Tuesday 207 Paintings are exclusive to The Maine. They depict the land, the light and the people that make this state a state of wonder. Jessica is editor of The Maine and writes occasionally as The Outsider.

Leaf Peeping

photography by Jim Dugan

Rockland photographer Jim Dugan drove north a couple Sundays ago,
chasing peak fall color.

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Hugs. Rugs. Mugs.

display by Jo Ellen Designs

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October Windows

photographs by Linda Ziegler

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Lobster for a Crowd

video by Jim Dugan

Misty Lake Mornings

photograph and text by Polly Saltonstall

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There’s a transitional period in the fall when chilly air combined with water still storing summer’s warmth creates fog on the lake— like last Wednesday when I went for an early morning row surrounded by a thick mist that swirled in and out.

One moment I was bathed in bright sunshine, the next engulfed in a cold, gray void. As the fog and sunlight battled each other, I took this photo right at the edge. Looking at it later got me thinking about how we see things. An optimist might say the fog was the blank canvas. Blue sky and green trees emerge as the brushstrokes of light expand.

Me? I know that these misty lake mornings, like the red leaves on the maple in my yard, mean winter’s black-and-white palette is creeping relentlessly closer — the fog is just the advance guard.

By Friday as the temperature rose again, the mist was gone and the lake felt summery enough for me to go swimming after my row.

But the grey will be back, and it will eventually erase all the color.

Maine Farmland Trust