OK ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, its time for this year's obligatory lupine photo.

I know that everyone with an image making device is out there crawling through the pucker brush, transiting the shorelines and hopefully, not trampling over this year's crop of Lupine Lady contributions to the already exceptional beauty of our Maine. For me, this is an annual visual adventure. Where will they come up, what colors will they be, and how many attend the big dance.

Does anyone (other than me) wonder how birds know when the feeders are full? The red squirrels certainly seem to have figured it out! Last year there were very few red squirrels munching at the trough of life. This year, it’s a bumper crop! It’s like, “Your order is ready” at FAT BOYS! They are aggressive and numerous. Fortunately we have one of those spring loaded feeders that the squirrels can’t climb. But they sure can chew their way to stardom trying. Traffic control at our feeders is overwhelming!

It was just about a year ago that we visited Blue Tin Farm on the Cross Point Road in Edgecomb. I knew of the farm and its animals and hoped that Crystal Theall and her family of people and animals would allow us to vist again.

I love the cool pale green of new growth in spring. It sort of represents the refreshing of things and really never shows up for another year. The birch leaves in particular, however the green leaves of our ginkgo are a close second, but later.

We first bumped into the Johanson-Goranson family at Sheepscot Valley Children’s House in Wiscasset, in the early ’90s. Our children, along with a gang of other area youngsters, attended pre-school and a couple elementary school years together there. Our daughter Mae, and Carl Johanson, started out around the same time and ironically, ended up together years later at Bennington College in Vermont, in the theatre and acting program.

Before I step out into traffic today with my weekly adventure, I'd like to comment about an evolving situation in our community.

For many many years I have visited our local business establishments with little or no concern and increasing recognition. Recently it occurred to me that I look like many people and am unrecognizable.

Over the years I have owned and used many chainsaws. In my younger years, the metal of choice was either Homelite or McCulloch. The McCulloch saw was enormous, heavy and loud with a bar that was over two feet long. It was like lugging a small Evinrude outboard through the woods. But, once you set that baby on a log, it was so heavy, you needn’t do anything but wait for it to finish the cut. No pressure needed. Don’t get it bound up though, it --- took a backhoe to dislodge.

Delores “Lola” deHoyos O’Byrne.

Without even knowing Lola, her “official” name, to me, was a bit of a mystery. Quite a combination of vowels, for all you English teachers out there. When I first heard her name I couldn’t help but wonder where on Earth had this woman come from. And you know, even now, as she has made the big turn, I’m not sure I know where Lola came from.

When I was a kid growing up in the central Pennsylvania land of hunters, my father and I would sometimes head off into the woods in search of elusive wild things to shoot at. Dad used to joke that our rigorous excursions were more like exercise programs for regional wildlife than actual success filled killing missions. I’m not sure we ever actually “hit” much of what we shot at, excepting the occasional hemlock tree or mountain laurel bush. We often laughed on our drives home about what the woods' animals must be saying to each other as we entered their domain. Something perhaps like, “Oh boy, here comes Goober and Festus again, let’s get ready to rumble. These turkeys couldn't hit the broad side of a barn door.”

For anyone who reads this column you shouldn’t be surprised by my inability to stay on task for very long. I do have a tendency to wander. Well, this week’s adventure will confirm any suspicions you might have regarding my distractability. Not like Damariscove or Eastern Egg Rock distracted. We’re talking California boys and girls. So set your GPS for the gold rush days and settle in. I hope you will find this interesting.

I have been reluctant to share today’s ditty for a variety of reasons, many of which I ignore because it’s not in my nature to follow instructions. I think this may be the result of being over instructed in my youth. That’s just a guess, but we'll go with that for the time being.

This photograph makes me smile. Interestingly, because it reminds me of Captain Morton's son, Ernie, who I used to bump into frequently when he worked at Hawke Motors with Richard Latter. Man, what a team!

What's the first thing you notice about this photograph? Is it the power lines? Ugh. I know. I would have tried to eliminate them with some fancy Photoshop magic, but I don't know how and figure it would take me 87 hours to learn. And then it would probably look like jet contrails ghosting across the front of the buildings!

I made this week’s photo of Danielle Ames last summer by accident while photographing from the East Side. You never know what you might find when not looking.

Danielle has quite a story, I came to discover, as she helped process pogies at Harbor Bait which shares space with Eddie's “Atlantic Edge” and the town pier. I had never witnessed this process and was amazed by what Danielle (who I did not know but asked her permission to photo) had to do to keep up with the flow of pogies spewing out of conveyors and shutes, flying every which way and into blue barrels. It appeared to me to be a herculean task, not to mention, for a woman. I soon realized that Danielle knew her stuff and was extremely capable and experienced.

Every now and then I get the urge to blast off from the island and adventure out. So late Saturday morning I wound up the Jetta and headed up to Wiscasset to annoy my old pal Erika Soule at Rock Paper Scissors. She always freaks a little when she sees me coming through the door. Over the years I generally do not land lightly. She’s been in her shop for 20 years now in 2020, and generally has reason to fear my arrivals. We usually get hysterical in about five minutes, driving all customers from the store. Even her pup runs for cover.

This past weekend some New York City area friends visited.

Tom, a retired Wall Streeter, and Dwight, a retired Navy Seal and current real estate consultant. Both old salts of sorts. Tom a veteran of “Outward Bound” and Dwight a veteran third generation sailor, and, of course, military service. Both had spent time in Maine but never visited our Boothbay region.

Jack Sherman grew up on Southport. He spent lots of time in his youth climbing rocks on Pratt’s Island and riding bikes around Southport, and fishing. His family has great ties to the island for generations with many strong connections to the area.

For as long as we have lived here, we have collected pot buoys. They float onshore everywhere.

When I first lived in Maine at “Treasure Island” on Little River in East Boothbay, I did not collect much of anything. I didn't even know what a pot buoy was, or did. But one day while out messing about on the rocks near the Treasure Island pier, Winfield “Cooney” Dodge and I crossed paths as he was on his way out to haul his traps from his modest outboard powered skiff. Our visit turned out to be a bit more than bargained for, but a good lobstering primer. My knowldege of many things was further expanded as I joined a group of esteemed elders for weekly “bid wist” card encounters at the American Legion, which, by the way, Mr. Dodge did not tolerate losing very gracefully.

We are gaining daylight, I think, finally.

You’d think after all these years that I would be a little more accustomed to the lack of winter daylight, but I'm not. The short daylight of winter gets to me. It may actually have to do with that seasonal lack of light thing. The one where it can be pretty dark at 4 o’clock on a heavy overcast day. I become a slug.

Now honestly, who wouldn't want to have lunch with this lovely young lady? There were people lined up into the hall at the elementary school waiting to be greeted and served by Kathy Page. Grilled cheese? Maybe a little lasagna? How ’bout some milk? Any dessert? I was on the wrong side of the glass, and my tray was empty.