Montezuma redux

Great Blue Heron

Trumpeter Swan

Great Egret

This year's eaglets. No sign of mom and dad

PUFFINS!

There Once Was a Puffin

Oh, there once was a Puffin
Just the shape of a muffin,
And he lived on an island
In the bright blue sea!

 He ate little fishes,
That were most delicious,
And he had them for supper
And he had them for tea.

 But this poor little Puffin,
He couldn't play nothin',
For he hadn't anybody
To play with at all.

 So he sat on his island,
And he cried for awhile, and
He felt very lonely,
And he felt very small.

 Then along came the fishes,
And they said, "If you wishes,
You can have us for playmates,
Instead of for tea!"

 So they now play together,
In all sorts of weather,
And the Puffin eats pancakes,
Like you and like me.

by Florence Page Jaques

 That's the poem my dad used to read to us kids when we were little - one of my all-time favorites. At long last I got a first-hand look at puffins during our trip to Acadia National Park in Maine. Yeah, yeah, yeah,  the trip was three weeks ago, but late is better than never, right? A rotator cuff injury and ensuing surgery has kept me occupied but I'm back to typing (don't tell my dr.)  and it's about time I shared my Acadia photos.

Deer feeding in front yard

Bald Eagle, just down the road from our cottage

It was a great week for the most part. Two rainy days - but that just gave us permission to be lazy, and a day's postponement on our whale/puffin watch due to fog. We took a bike trip on Acadia's Carriage Trails - although the route was a loop, I swear there was much more uphill than down. It was only about 10 miles but plenty for my taste.

On Thursday we drive up Route 1 along the coast to the Moosehorn Wildlife Refuge in Calais. I have to day it was very disappointing. All the staff were "in the field" and nothing was marked clearly so we had no idea where to hike. On top of that we saw very little. I did however learn the proper pronunciation of several of the towns: Calais (cal'-ass), Ellsworth (ales-worth), Machias (ma-kye'-us), and Lebec (le-bec': OMG something that's pronounced the way it looks!)

At the end we agreed it was an enjoyable trip with beautiful scenery but one we might not do again for awhile: there's just too much traffic and tourism for our taste.

The trip up took 2-1/2 hours more than planned due to 30 mph traffic on the INTERSTATE for gosh sakes! For the return we decided to go west through Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont, entering New York State at Crown Point. It was just as long time-wise but oh so much more enjoyable! 

(P.S. Blogger has changed their composing interface - making it incredibly difficult to place pictures uniformly...GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!)

Jordan Pond, Acadia National Park

Mount Washington, New Hampshire

double-crested cormorant

What are you lookin' at?

Surf's up!

Sunset on Cadillac Mountain

Just before sunset on Cadillac Mountain

Young great blue heron - having a bad hair day

Quoddy Head Light - easternmost point in the US

View of Porcupine Islands and Frenchman's Bay from Cadillac Mt. Summit

Sand Beach at Acadia National Park

Someday I want to write....

...and a few years ago I started trying. They were mostly short stories, some poetry, an few attempts at longer works, mostly unfinished. I've been thinking about dusting off one of my more complete attempts and trying to make it into a polished novel. Can I do it?
I think I've never wanted to commit to the work a really good novel would take, but now I'm seriously thinking about it. Going through my warehouse of ideas and starts, I found two versions of this story. Apparently I had started writing in first person, but at some point decided to change to a 3rd person telling. Now I wonder why. I like the crusty old lady in this version. I feel the writing bug's bite.

In the Arms of God
By
Susannah Willey

Introduction
“It’s not the life God gives you that’s important,” says the handmade sampler that hangs on the wall. “It’s how you live it that matters.”

Horseshit. The life you get makes all the difference, and God has a nasty sense of humor.

Eighty-seven years ago He started me out struggling; no one thought I’d survive the night. I’ve struggled every day since. It has been a long and troublesome life; I have fought God for every day He gave me. And if there’s anything I’ve learned, one constant throughout, it’s this: the only thing sure about life is dying. The rest is left to God and chance.

My life has never been my own. I belonged first to my father and then my husband, was victim to God’s fancies, inherited the prejudices of my people and was blinded by their narrow ways. Now I see that my children have learned nothing from it, that they too have fallen victim to the whims of the Almighty and the cruelties of their ancestors. Of the children God saw fit to give me, only two remain. Both are deformed – one in body, the other in spirit. Both have disappointed and abandoned me. Neither have become what they should.

Now my ordeal is nearly ended; I lie helpless in this bed that is not my own, my body ravaged by the disease that consumes me, and the certainty of death is all that remains.
There is one more thing to do before God takes me. It is my dying wish to put to paper a telling of my days. I wish those who follow me to know the wretchedness that was my life: My parents gave me away, my husband enslaved me, my children dishonored me, God toyed with me… perhaps my grandchildren will do better.

I have been many people in my lifetime: an innocent child and loving daughter, a God-fearing Christian and dutiful wife, a joy-filled mother and grief-stricken parent, and now at last a miserable old woman. But as I lie on my deathbed in this darkened room, as I close my eyes and think on the past, the person I see first is the bride-child, a tender young girl barely thirteen years old who stood before God in an act of faith and pledged her life to a man who did not deserve her. This is where I start my story...