Before sharing my confusion with you, let me give you a little background.

I went to public schools in rural central Pennsylvania. Good enough school. We were pretty well taught.

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

The Postal Service has no official motto, but these words appear above the entrance to New York City Post Office on 8th Avenue. They come from Book 8, Paragraph 98, of The Persian Wars by Herodotus. During the wars between the Greeks and Persians (500-449 B.C.), the Persians operated a system of mounted postal couriers who served with great fidelity.

Mary Brewer had been working at “The Register” office for over ten years when I sent a letter to the editor in 1975. My tale about picking up lobsters for Phyllis Washington at “Treasure Island” on Little River cleared the editorial staff in good shape with only the lightest touch from the punctuation department.

Doubled up paper bags from Finast grocery store, provided by then lobsterman Mr. Alley, had let go on my walk home and the lobsters took off down Hiawatha Trail. The story wasn't particularly noteworthy but it was the beginning of my association with the paper and Mary B.

The violin confused me.

Clearly I had entered a sacred space. A vessel's shell ran the length of a large open bay with parts and pieces and tool stations everywhere, filled with wood smell. It's an interesting world that has always fascinated me. Building a boat. Preparing for water.

So, there I was, at the edge of darkness. The sun had set and a full moon flooded the Harbor. Tugboat Inn — closed for the season — I would annoy no one. A small red building at the end of the Inn's parking lot called out to me and I responded.

A combination of moonlight and an adjacent street light made the red building glow. Long exposure rattled around in my head. I seldom carry a tripod and figured the exposure I anticipated would be a few seconds (at least) so I needed a solid camera rest.

Many of us have visited Paris and cities of Europe. We have family and friends who live in American large cities like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles and other major urban centers.

We have eaten in their restaurants, driven their streets, slept in their hotels, visited their gardens, boated rivers and flown to and from their airports.

Did you ever park your car somewhere and forget where?

When my mother-in-law was having trouble with this, we put a fluorescent tennis ball on her antenna. So, when she went to Macy's, she had a better chance of locating her car after shopping. It worked for a while.

But lots of people started using antenna tennis balls.

Kevin Kiley's moon is full for many of the wonderful shows that visit the Opera House. Shows we can attend are all but completely arranged by Cathy Sherrill, who has worked in and around the Opera House for the past ten years. Before that, Cathy helped out at the Opera House in a variety of ways, as many have, to save and renovate what some have called the cultural center of our peninsula.

I met Cathy at her wedding — that was a long time ago, but a date I often recall for a lot of reasons. Mostly I remember her father and how special he and Cathy were together. Their interaction captivated me — it was impossible to ignore how much they cared for each other. I think it was obvious for the guests, too.

I know this week's episode is not properly timed with previously aired photo essays, but there is a reason.

Expatriate Wiscasseteers have come out of the bushes to remind me that this column runs weekly for the Boothbay Register AND The Wiscasset Newspaper. So maybe it would be nice to “focus” up river a bit!

The last couple weeks have cranked out a lot of color across the bow. Fall has really provided extraordinary brilliance. It wasn't what I expected given the long stretches of dry weather we have had. Just goes to show, even the least well informed make mistakes now and then.

So this week I switched off the color shtick and went monochromatic to late evening with fog on the footbridge. This image gets back to my roots of black and white which I truly miss. Without color, to me, the black and white image engages the viewer differently, allowing the eyes and brain to participate more personally. All the information is not given — it goes to a different place in the brain — your place.

Oct. 15 was a magnificent fall day to go flying.

It has been a while. Aerial photography, like much to do with my work, has gone through major changes. Costs, drones, all-knowing cameras, smartphones and more people photographing have taken a toll. So I was excited to be back in the air with a camera drifting around, being a seagull.

Late summer and early fall seemed unusually warm and dry to me. Experience, as a well documented “fall lover,” tells me that this is not a good combination for much color in the trees, which is another nostalgic favorite of mine.

But, so far, it seems my past recollections are incorrect — imagine! This fall is turning up some dandy color, in sort of fits and starts, as it were.

Every now and then an opportunity presents itself.

Recently, one of my favorite “living” photographers, Michael Kenna, opened an exhibit at Paul Paletti Gallery in Louisville, Kentucky. Kenna rarely shows in the United States, so I decided go. It seemed possible. Two and a half days, down and back.

So I gave in. Like 6 zillion other folks with cameras and phones, out we went in search of the supermoon.

It's funny. The last time I tried to photograph a supermoon was 2011. Remember? The photo where the moon was about half way out of the ocean with a yellowish cast. I took a lot of heat for the part of the moon that didn't make it out of the ocean.

Headed home to Southport last week, driving around Mill Cove, I noticed a very substantial motor yacht parked at Donny Wotton's old pier. I was reminded of my boat.

Admittedly, my boat is far less sophisticated and remains securely attached to the trailer it came with. I am pretty sure it floats.

Alfred Huskins lived across the street from “The Pink Cottages” just off Dogfish Head Road, back from Ebenecook Harbor, on Southport. He and I met when I was doing some work for Mary and Liz (Harward and Kiehn) at the cottages. I was also cat-sitting for Mary and Liz at their house over near Decker Cove. My job was to keep their long-haired cat alive and hair ball free. It was a long winter which we both survived.

Just when we'd had a full week of fog and heat and rain and humidity, we got Saturday! What a gorgeous day.

Low humidity, cooler temperatures, nice breezes for the boating crowd — a welcomed change. The harbor was busy on the water and in the streets. People everywhere seemed to be pleased.

School schedules are driving the bus these days, good weather or not. I photographed a family from Atlanta in July. They started school Aug. 5!

Instead of trying to recall the many adventures of this legendary citizen, I figure it might be better to allow others' stories to expand on their own. I could never get all the facts lined up properly for the many versions of “The Douglas Carter Chronicles.”

So I will share my own story: “My Time with Douglas,” and we'll let the chips fall where they may. Nobody but Douglas and I can verify what I am about to say anyway, so, no harm, no foul.

Ocean Point would be our first stop home from the airport. Mother had never been to Maine — she was claustrophobic and the thought of flying terrified her.

But with the help of my sisters and some pre-flight medications, Mother got her courage up and made the trip. Not easy from central Pennsylvania back in the early USAir days. No direct flights and a lot of shuffling around for a rural Pennsylvania gal who had never flown.