Gloves are like underwear. Everybody has preferences. This brand or that. The material. The fit. The fashion.

There are now so many different kinds of gloves. Gloves for work. Gloves for driving. Gloves for skiing, boating, motorcycles, bikes. Gloves that keep you warm and gloves that breath in summer. Rubber gloves. Cotton gloves. Yadda, yadda yadda.

Russ Brackett was the local Nissen bread man back in the ’70s when I worked overnight clean up at The Tugboat Inn. He would land at the most ridiculous hour, entering through the kitchen door, to replenish bakery goods for the restaurant. We'd have a quick visit and maybe share a slice of pie and a coffee and then he would be on his way. A nice break from cleaning the rubber floor mats on the line.

Antonisa, the beautiful 124' sloop built at the Murray Hill Hodgdon shop went into the water in 1999, in this very spot. For that event, it was standing room only. On this day of my photograph, as you can see, there was ample space. Fairly typical of how the seasons run around here. Some might say its sort of nice when there is a little less going on.

You know what really burns me up?

When I brew a wonderful cup of coffee from my favorite stash of exquisite beans (personally ground by me at home), with an elegant dollop of home grown local honey, adding just the right amount of high quality half and half which instantly curdles to floating white chunks.

Eventually everyone who works with computers will experience some sort of problem with the machine. Some are more capable of resolving these challenging moments than others.

Take me for instance, a late arrival to the world of technology. I'm happy as a clam as long as things are running smoothly, beaming up mail, working on photos, ordering online. But, when there is a malfunction, for whatever reason, I freak!

Sometimes when you're not looking, the coolest stuff shows up.

Understanding full well that what I find interesting may not be the icing on everybody's cake.

Last week at this time I contacted Kevin Burnham, editor at the Boothbay Register, to say that my column would be delayed. Snow had drifted up the front door. I couldn't get out. He said he understood, sharing that he hoped to resume the search for his car and begin shoveling.

I removed the glass panel from the storm door from inside and faced chest high drifts between me and the tractor shed. We needed to open up the lane to the state road. It was quite a slog. But we “got 'er done,” eventually.

In the early 1990s, Kernan Cross and I opened a photo lab, Main Street Photo, in Damariscotta. Kernan had good knowledge of lab operations and I had some contacts at AGFA, the German film company and photo lab operations group. We were able to purchase a used system for film processing, and a separate unit for printing. The timing was pretty good, and even though we were outlanders from down river, local Damariscotta folk eventually warmed to the convenience of an intown facility.

Phyllis Washington stuck her head in my classroom on the last day of school in 1975.

“Mitch,” she said. “Do you have any plans for this summer?” Phyllis and I may have had two conversations in all the years I taught at Montclair (New Jersey) High School.

Some may think this little corner of the paper too often mentions Southport subjects.

Guilty as charged. It's where I leave from and where I return to. In my travels, things show up. As good fortune would have it, my cameras ride shotgun almost everywhere I go. Good for me.

It's not every day that you get to break bread with someone who has lived 100 years.

On Sunday, I had the privilege, along with many wonderful and supportive local folk, of celebrating with our friend Lucille Machon. A splendid and remarkable birthday event for Lucy was encouraged and hosted by the Rigas family at The House of Pizza with probably 100, give or take, family members and friends in attendance.

Last year, almost to the day, the photograph above was recorded from the Boothbay Harbor side of the Southport bridge. Although we had a relatively limited snow season, it was chilly. Even the crows in this photo knew enough to take advantage of the less severe weather and possible offering from Craig Sproul's Linda Lee, which was heading back to home dock.

I hesitate to celebrate our relatively “open” winter. Seems I recall someone suggesting to me that one should not look a gift horse in the mouth. So, I will cautiously say that I am grateful for the reasonable lack of white tonnage here on the coast.

My grandmother made oatmeal with raisins in a double boiler, which she started the night before. Super creamy. Adding dark brown sugar and fresh whole milk from the local dairy to boot.

I loved going to stay with Grandma. It was always a holiday. But, oatmeal wasn't the only special on the menu.

I was doing some chainsaw work in the back field at home and thoughts of Cozy Harbor came into my mind. Not to worry; I was well beyond the set back from high tide — no need to call the Shore Patrol. When we get water in the back field, “Oliver's” restaurant will be selling submarine sandwiches.

It's odd.

You can live here in this wonderful but relatively small, fairly tight knit community and know someone for years and never cross paths. Not even at the dump or Hannaford. Such was the case with Jimmy Bryer until the other day.

Wild weather we've been having! Below zero with winds one day then 50 degrees and rain the next. What's a mother to do?

It's often quite challenging for me to find a photo and words each week. But I like to think that people at least look at this stuff before crinkling the paper up for fire starters.

I stopped in to see Tom Peaslee for our annual Christmas tree shopping adventure. In my 20-minute visit, I learned an unbelievable amount of extraordinary information chatting with Tom.

The Peaslee family has been in the Christmas tree business for 100 years or more. I don't recall exactly. Tom told me about his family's 1,500-acre farm up in Jefferson where his father, one of 15 children, thank you very much, provided trees for thousands. He recalled trainloads of trees being shipped to New York City, when he helped out as a child. In later years, he and his father took truck loads of trees to Boston.

Every year, when the temperatures are consistently above freezing, we drag our house plants out to what used to be the dog's fenced in playground. Since we no longer have dogs, this is a safe move. When Rooby and Buddy were still part of the family, anything that was the least bit obstructive to their freedom was in peril. They were nice dogs, don't get me wrong, but severely destructive. Rooby, our Jack Russell, could fly through the dog door en route to squirrel patrol under an aging birch with the agility of a seasoned pole vaulter, barely touching the ground before roaring half way up the tree, snapping at an unsuspecting red squirrel. She was a fearless hunter. Buddy, our Golden, on the other hand, would merely crash into the door until it opened, disregarding the dog door altogether. They got along well.

Jenny Joseph and I met through the mail in 1990. Her poem, “Warning,” was read by Ann Richards (then governor of Texas) on TV program “Sunday Morning.” I loved the poem and wrote to Jenny. We became friends. “Warning” was written in 1961.

Jenny proposed a book idea and came here to Maine to visit and write. She selected photos for our book, “Beached Boats,” from her visit and my two trips to her home in Minchinhampton, Gloucestershire, a village in the Cotswolds region of the United Kingdom.

This is the big moon that everyone has been talking about. I mean, its a smaller version of the BIG MOON because its not big yet. The image was made a few days before the much anticipated “Super Moon.” I got impatient.

I was grappling with an armload of firewood at what seemed like 10 o'clock, after the time change, which really messes me up. It takes me a good month to adjust to the earlier darkness that happens when some genius makes us move our clocks back.