Maine Maple Sunday


R. found these plastic Folger’s coffee cans put to good purpose in the village.

Last Sunday was Maine Maple Sunday, seems to happen every year, when folks go around watching sapping operations, and if they’re lucky, sampling fresh maple syrup on pancakes. You can zigzag through the woods on snowshoes peering into buckets, and there’s always something to see, something to stumble on. As in this picture, when we had no intention of finding sapping, buckets on trees, anything. And if you go through woods on snowshoes there may ever be a sense of uncertainty in those being guided. Somehow you manage to win your way back home, but this may not reassure them for the next excursion — will they really trust you again? And, if you’re a writer, what about readers, if they sense something like this going on in your work?

And here is your average older person scoping it out in the woods, as we say here.



In the village behind the academy.


apology for silence, hands


sdorman in woodland dwelling, stumbled on


Early on, beginning in the 1980s, it was noticed that many in Maine were suffering from carpal tunnel and repetitive stress in their hands, owing to work in wood-turning mills. That is not the cause of my chronic injury, but rather a broken typewriter on which I stubbornly persisted typing, while living and creatively writing here in Maine. Am trying to stick tightly to the Maine connection here, but—with apologies—I need a place online to link this personal note in e-mail correspondence. Continue reading

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