We had some pretty big doings here on the island last week.

Our volunteer fire department, along with Boothbay and Boothbay Harbor, planned and set up an emergency “mutual aid” practice focusing on the unthinkable prospects of a fire at the Hodgdon Yacht (formerly Boothbay Region Boatyard) facility at the end of Ebenecook Road. This was a large project, coordinating three departments, equipment and many firefighting personnel. Traffic was diverted and roads were blocked. Ebenecook Road, however, became a flurry of activity.

There is so much going on at Boothbay Harbor Shipyard, it's hard to fathom.

A great old sardine carrier, Glenn-Geary, is being checked out for repairs. It has seen some hard times and I'm sure with nautical TLC new life will visit her old bones. Parts of the boat are being probed. How much of the keel needs attention? How good is the hull? New fastenings? New planks? Whatever it takes. I hope we will get to see Glenn-Geary make a miraculous recovery. There are folks at the shipyard who can get it done.

“In the end, we are all just sticks in the mud.”

Seems like a rather odd comment coming from a young man I mentored back in the early ’70s. He lived in the projects in Newark, New Jersey, and would have been hard pressed to even find sticks or mud. The first time he ever saw the ocean was with me at the tender age of 16.

Mary Pinkham has retired as children's librarian at Boothbay Harbor Memorial Library, but as many of us know, she will always remain part of our lives and the lives of our children. For 29 years “Pinkus” gave us more than books and words. She showed us a way to enjoy each other and the experience of coming together. Mary's space was created for the joy of sharing things that will never leave us.

As you leave Boothbay Center with its myriad of complicated forthcomings, on a walk, bike or drive, go west down Corey Lane. Take the first right onto Barters Island Road

and travel on.

Do you suppose “Daylight Saving Time” was a thought when Mr. Chaucer penned “Time and tide wait for no man?” I don't think so.

We just scooted clocks ahead an hour this past weekend, which has me a bit out of sync with whatever had become somewhat routine over the last many months. Routine, for me, you must understand, is subject to review.

Before landing in Maine, Truro and Wellfleet on Cape Cod were, and still are, among my favorite places. The late afternoon sunlight shining on the Harbor houses of this week's photo reminded me of my times there.

Edward Hopper painted a fair amount on “The Cape” as he did here in Maine, on Monhegan, around Cape Elizabeth and other places. His work often emphasized angular light, deep shadows and the architecture of New England.

No need to remind anyone about the weather we have been having this “winter.” It's been really quite unusual. Even I'm confused, weather geek that I can tend to be.

As one might suspect, photographing is quite weather influenced. I check the weather systems often in anticipation of conditions for travel, location and trends, especially when outdoor subjects are in play. The weather maps have looked like a complicated football strategy for an onside kick! Lines, pressure gradients, fronts, cells, wind speeds, temperatures, precipitation -- yikes! What's a mother to do?

This was my first ocean view upon landing here in Boothbay.

It's the old Rumsey cottage view. When I could get to a phone, I called the superintendent of schools where I taught in New Jersey and resigned.

We first got to know Paul Noah when we lived “across the rock” from his home and folks, Oscar and Marilyn. We had moved from Kimballtown Road on Barters Island to our wonderful home at the top of Sherman Street, up the hill off West Street, between the houses of Dr. Cushman and Alice Larkin. Our house belonged to Verna Coady, mother of Bernard Coady, one of the local Harbor barbers.

It was a coin toss -- heads I win, tails, you lose.

Do I stay inside and nap through the pregame quagmire or go out and try to replace the massive divots I'd peeled off our property in an attempt to clear snow?

I don't think Kit and Leigh Sherrill watch much television.

They are very active folks, community volunteers who help many organizations throughout the region including the district nurse and the heating fund.

Kit is a “retired” Episcopal priest who never quite retired. Leigh just doesn't ever seem to lack for things to do.

Clear is really clear this time of year.

When the air temperature drops and the cold fronts descend, the intensity of the light ratchets up. On really cold days, the moisture is driven from the air. This allows light to travel with less or no dispersion through the sky to our eye, or more exactly, to our lenses.

Andy Benoit is a very familiar face here in the region.

He was a doctor at St. Andrews for many years. He jogs all around the area, cross country skis, ice skates, bikes and roller blades. Athleticism runs in the family.

He is the only person I know, other than my wife, who brings home from the dump more than he takes.

Almost to the day, a year ago, I made the above photograph.

Not exactly sure why I was out wondering around on such a cold and blustery day, but I was. January 8, 2015. My phone had just left my hand and dropped into a crack in the rocks — it was ringing and flashing but nobody home.

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.