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WINTER 2017-2018 • ISSUE 2-3

Northern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysWINTER 2017-2018 • ISSUE 2-3WINTER 2017-2018 • ISSUE 2-3

Northern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern 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Winter 2017-2018 Northern Journeys Mid-coast Maine 2

Boothbay Region Art Foundation

One Townsend Avenue, Boothbay Harbor, Maine 04538www.boothbayartists.org • [email protected]

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Northern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysNorthern JourneysMid-coast Maine Edition

A Magazine of the Arts, Humanities and SciencesWinter 2017-2018; Volume 2, No. 3

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Winter 2017-2018 Northern Journeys Mid-coast Maine3

Dear Fellow Travelers-

In her best-selling book, Big Magic, Elizabeth Gilbert writes, “Create what-ever causes a revolution in your heart.” What, exactly, does that mean to you? Do you believe you were put on this earth to create? Do you believe that you are uniquely and unequivocally you and that you have a very special purpose to carry out during your time here? Everyone possesses special gifts that, over time, can be manifested and shared. Some of you will discover these gifts as small children while others grow into their artistic calling later in life, perhaps inspired by others. Some of you will find your creative spark as you near the end of your earthly journey after you have collected many different experiences to nourish and guide you. When you create as only you can, and show the rest of the world what is in your mind and in your heart, you widen the accepting circle that welcomes others. The message is, “Dare to be you.” When we commit to becoming the very best version of ourselves, I truly believe the universe will hold every sin-gle one of us in its warm embrace and support our journey, providing us with precisely what we need. When we begin the planning of each Northern Journeys, we never know who will gather together. We only know it will happen. This issue is no ex-ception. Portland’s first-ever poet laureate, Martin Steingesser, contributed a poem about love and tenderness as well as an essay about how poetry comes unannounced into the everyday and rescues us. Photographer Debby Stubbs calls on us to be patient, persistent, and to practice our craft while our regular contributor, Jacob Nordby, asks us to remember who we used to be before the world told us who we should be. Kimberly Trider-Grant’s piece on the art of resourcefulness shows how rais-ing fiber animals, spinning, and knitting are thriving in Maine. You will also be delighted by the wonderful way in which artist Peggy Clark Lumpkins views the whole world as a painting. Award-winning singer and songwriter Lisa Redfern writes of how music has transformed not only her life, but the lives of others. Returning writer Kristen Lolatte gifts us with the second part of her beautiful selkie story and Christine Richards reminds us of the lost art of letter-writing. Fifth-grade teacher Diana Marc-Aurele shares short stories and a poem from three of her students; all budding writers who work diligently at their craft. We’re also honored to have two father-daughter teams in this issue. Ariel Nelson has illustrated her father Todd’s short story while returning poets William Garrett and his daughter, Autumn Murphy both share their poems with us. I am very proud of my granddaughter, 6th grader Lucy Lajoie, who took time out of her very busy schedule to write this issue’s Feed ME page. Not one to be left out, her little brother, Jude, age 6, presented me with the joyful self-portrait at the top of this page, drawn especially for Northern Journeys. Once again, we thank you all for your support. You are vital members of our ever-growing tribe and my heart is always warmed by the notes and calls we receive from you, our faithful readers. Please contact us if you want to submit your work or purchase advertising space. We have many ways for you to get involved. As always, we continue to be inspired by the creative revolution in this amazing place we call home.

Shine on—

Karen

Visit us at www.northernjourneysmagazine.com . Please LIKE us on Facebook!

Table of ContentsPage4 The Red Bird

Martin Steingesser5 Patience, Persistence, Practice Featured Artist, Debby Stubbs6 Remembering

Jacob Nordby7 Your Maine Fiber Connection

Resourcefulness is an Art Kimberly Trider-Grant8 The Whole World is a Painting to Me

Featured Artist, Peggy Clark Lumpkins9 Mainely Music The Transforming Power of Music Lisa Redfern10 A Stranger with a Present Kristen Lolatte11 Receiving Mail Feels Good: Five Reasons for Sending Some

Christine Richards12 Featured Artists’ Gallery14 The Snow Day Owl

Todd Nelson15 What I Have to Say Bowdoinham Community School 5th Graders16 The Poets & Artists Amongst Us

Autumn and I, William Garrett Muse of Illusion, Autumn Murphy17 Feed ME Warm Up Your Winter Lucy Lajoie18 Restaurant Guide23 Poetry as Rescue Martin Steingesser Alissa Poisson

Our front cover: Peacock Displaying Feathers, Debby StubbsOur back cover: Schoodic Point Winter, oil on linen, 11 x 14 inches, Peggy Clark Lumpkins

Our ability to continue publication of Northern Journeys depends on our advertisers. Contact Publisher Jason Thomas at 208-597-3963 or [email protected] for our a ordable rates.

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Self-portrait, crayon on paper, 9 x 11 inches, Jude Lajoie


SARAH SUTTER PHOTO

From some podium hidden high in one of the maples behind my house, a cardinal is filling morning with the glory of Verdi. His song comes native with the Sun, not only because he sings like an opera star,but because he feels like ours, mine and my wife’s,once singing the Sun up outside our bedroom window.

I have been away working, and the other nightwe felt the strangeness of separation—shy egrets after winter, different migrations.After dinner, we nestled on the couch, feeling our way back to tenderness, moved on to bed, allowing bodiestheir own way, finding each other

the way children born to different languagesbegin friendship in play without speechor even animals of different species. I think of the storyof a polar bear and husky, the bear not mauling the dog,responding instead to doggy gestures for play,or the natural rapport of an autistic boy with animals. He would run up to them—wild ones.Once, he threw himself belly upunder a big bay, an alpha mare. She stood still as stone, his father tells, the boy’s soft form so close to the hammer-hard hooves, thendipped her head, lips mouthing, a gestureof submission. Something hammer-hard

separating us, something about every living thing,different, alone, something that can trample hearts—I felt it that night dip its head, a grace of unionbefore lips, hands, our soft bodies.

Again, I scan the treetops, this time with binoculars,but can’t find the cardinal. Silent awhile—everythingstill, not a whisper among leaves. Then he sings.How like this red bird, Love.

BY MARTIN STEINGESSERCopyright © 2015 in Yellow Horses

The Red Bird

Male Northern Cardinal, Debby Stubbs

Martin Steingesser is the author of three books of poems, Yellow Horses, (https://issuu.com/deerbrookeditions/docs/yellow_hors-es_preview), Brothers of Morning, and The Thinking Heart: the Life & Loves of Etty Hillesum, the latter based on Hillesum's journal and letters. The Thinking Heart, also composed for performance, has toured in Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. It has also been performed in Europe, in Poland, and at the International Etty Hillesum Con-gress in Belgium.

Martin was Portland, Maine’s fi rst Poet Laureate from 2007-2009. As a performance poet, Martin has given presentations for

diverse audiences from the Poetry and Jazz Festival in Portsmouth, New Hampshire to the State House at the Maine Capital. He also performs with the ensemble, “O the Page: 2 Poets & Musician”. Martin has been teaching poetry workshops in Maine Artist-in-Residence programs for 35 years and was awarded a Stonecoast Pierre Menard Poetry Scholarship in 2000. He also received the Maine Alliance for Arts Education’s 2006 Bill Bonyun Award “for exemplifi ed talent and professionalism as an artist and for contributions to arts education”. For additional information, please view Martin’s listing with the Maine Arts Commission: https://mainearts.maine.gov/directory/arts/detail/1017.

Male Northern Cardinal, Debby Stubbs


��

BY DEBBY STUBBS

My work as a photographer focuses on Maine wildlife, flowers, and scenery, with a special interest in birds which I’m addicted to! I exhibit my images and sell them at art shows, galleries, and other venues, add-ing new work to my catalog portfolio every year. I travel with my camera equipment in tow across the United States and Canada from Maine to Florida, Texas, Washington, Alaska, and Victoria, British Columbia. My interest in photography began in 1973 with a Sears 35mm camera, but things got serious in 2004 when I got my first good DSLR camera. I have been busy ever since learning the craft with many upgrades in camera bodies and lenses. I’m primarily self-taught, but have taken a workshop or two and network with other photographers. Different per-spectives in macro photography are a new passion of mine.

I have more than 10,000 photographs in my catalog and each one has its own story. Sharing my experiences with others who enjoy our nat-ural world as much as I do is a highlight of my work. Subjects with attitude, interaction, and poses are my objective. My favorite image, an often-asked question, is usually just my current subject matter. I spend a lot of time with one subject as it can take hours, even days, to get the right light, conditions, and pose. Sometimes it takes years to record a particular image, taking into consideration the light, wind, angle, distract-ing backgrounds, cooperation, pose, and activity, whether I’m shooting a flower, an animal, or a bird. Patience, persistence, and practice are paramount to getting “the shot”. The time spent creating the story of the image weaves an emotional bond that makes it possible to remember the place, date, and circum-stances. Scouting an area for the subject is part of the job and some-times involves camping out overnight and spending hours waiting for “action”. For instance, one of my moose expeditions to Sandy Stream Pond in Baxter State Park involved a 13-hour day that included hiking in the dark over rocks and logs to the pond, carrying my tripod, twenty pounds of photo gear, and food. I had to get there before daylight! Other times, things happen in a split second and I have to be ready with my camera settings and reflexes. Occasionally a willing subject lets me into their world and goes about their day as if no human is watching. My advice to aspiring photographers is to love what you do, learn the basics, and practice, practice, practice. Find your own unique niche as you get inspiration from other photographers, but develop your own ‘eye’. Make an image, not a snapshot. I started my photography business in 2005 and that has been another thing altogether. It’s a 24/7 job. The word, “obsession” comes to mind, as well as “crazed”. It’s just not about taking pictures. There’s the invest-ment in the proper equipment and materials, editing and printing, partic-ipating in art shows and all the expenses that go with that such as a tent, tables, and booth fees. A significant amount of time is involved in getting your product ready; setting up, working, and tearing down the show; sales and bookkeeping; paying for insurance and taxes; and networking. I’m sure I’ve left something out! But if you have the drive and dedication, and develop your talent, it’s gratifying to talk with those who enjoy your work. My customers look forward to new subject matter from me and return year after year.

Debby Stubbs, a Brunswick native, graduated from Brunswick High School. Her photographs have been published in Birds & Blooms and Up North. She is a member and advertising director of Merry Meeting Art Association and an exhibi-tor at The Art Corner Gallery in Brunswick. Debby also participates in a variety of art and craft shows throughout the year. Mid Coast Hospital recently purchased a seventeen-piece art exhibit of Debby’s photography for their Breast and Surgical Oncology Center O¤ ce. Debby sells matted prints, collages, photo canvasses and other items with her im-ages online. More information can be found at www.debbysmainephotos.com and at Debby’s Photos on Facebook or write to her at [email protected].

Patience, Persistence, Practice

Common Puffin, Debby Stubbs

Debby Stubbs


I’ll never forget reading these words one day, “Can you remem-ber who you were, before the world told you who you should be?” At the time, I was going through a particularly rough patch and Danielle LaPorte’s single question; she calls them Truth Bombs, exploded in my heart and crumbled the walls that I had been banging my head against.

The answer was, “No.”

I didn’t remember. I couldn’t remember. It had been too long since I had seen the world with wide, expectant eyes. My life had become hard and anxious. I was waking up at 3 a.m. with my thoughts twisted like barbed wire, afraid to face another day of stress.

The adult me had grown jaded and heavy. Something was very wrong. It was obvious that starting another company, buying a bigger house, or scraping more money together wasn’t going to cure me.

I didn’t know it then, but I needed a serious creative recovery.

My children needed me back. I could see the concern in their eyes when we sat together at the dinner table.

My work was suffering, too. Somewhere along the trail I had lost my fire. Every time I pulled into the parking lot in front of the beautiful office I had built, a heavy weight descended upon my shoulders. I shut the door behind me, sat at the desk, and prayed the phone wouldn’t ring.

I had forgotten who I was and why I was here. I was called to begin the journey back home to myself by that question, “Do you remember…?”

Over the next several years, I learned some things.

I learned:

Everyone is born creative. Not everyone will be writers, paint-ers, actors, or musicians—gifted with what we commonly call “creativity.” However, we all show up in this world woven with the intelligent, curious, always-yearning threads of life itself.

For most of us, the inner spark becomes hidden under veils of routine, disappointments, societal norms and expectations, and a thousand other things that make us forget who we really are. We forget the vital, sparkling enthusiasm of childhood and the sense of possibility. We forget our ability to dream, imagine, and make our ideas become real.

Many of us assume that the cool people we admire have some-thing special about them that makes it possible to create things of beauty and passion—things that will serve and inspire the world. We assume that we don’t have the proper wiring.

That’s a lie.

The truth is that our inner genius child is still alive—yours is and mine is, too. We hold the codes within to craft a deeply sat-isfying life. Creative recovery is a process of remembering. It is a process of discovery. It is a journey of re-dreaming.

“Can you remember who you were, before the world told you who you should be?”

Creative recovery calls us back to our truth, our innocence, and our artistry. It empowers us to move through the fears and obstacles that have kept us from being ourselves. It is soul work that guides our behavior in the real world. As we retrieve our-selves from the clutter and static, we are empowered to shed the restraints and grow into the shape of our true destiny. We begin taking practical steps forward and carving out our own life as the art it was meant to be.

I learned these things and began to live them. My life began to change, one step at a time.

And now it’s time to remember again—time to live it more deep-ly than ever. I sit writing this from my protected little city here in Idaho, but I cannot ignore the world full of distress that I can see from here. The problems we all face seem so much larger than any of us. It is hard to imagine how we can make a differ-ence.

When I’m quiet, I can hear a small voice calling to me

“Remember…”“Remember…”“Remember…”

Remember what?

“Remember who you are. Remember that, though the world is large and you are small, your life matters. Remember that one cell, bursting with health, begins to heal the cells around it. Re-member that you can’t do it all, but you can do something. Re-member to live.”

Eric Brocksome Photo

RememberingBY JACOB NORDBY

Jacob Nordby of Boise, Idaho is the author of Blessed Are The Weird, A Manifesto for Creatives and The Divine Arsonist—A Tale of Awakening. He is currently working on another project, Terrible Beautiful Things - A Book of Scraps. More information about Jacob can be found at www.JacobNordby.com, www.BlessedAreTheWeird.com and on Facebook. His books can be ordered on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Indie Bound, and on iTunes.


Your Maine Fiber ConnectionBY KIMBERLY TRIDER-GRANTI grew up in rural Maine in an old farmhouse wrapped with green asphalt shingles in the tiny town of Leeds. Those shingles, although not particularly attractive, were practical and protective of the inside of our small home, just as the four generations inside were practical and protective of our family. My great-grand-mother, paternal grandparents, and parents were a wealth of knowledge and resources to me from the time I was very young. The ethics of my family, their drive to better our future, and their propensity for exhausting every resource available molded me into who I am today. This upbringing was instrumental in how I came to raise Clun Forest sheep. And the story begins. I have a dear friend, Dawn who has raised sheep for many years. Each year, she would have the shearer come to her farm, remove the fleeces from her sheep, and discard most of them. As a knitter from the time I was a small child, I could see the possibilities of this unwanted wool. Dawn offered the fleeces to me and I jumped at the opportunity. I took a spinning class and was instantly en-thralled. The “sheep to shawl” process was so exciting, and put to use all my lifelong training of practicality and resourcefulness. I became obsessed with learning all things woolen. Af-ter a couple of years of trying out many types of fleeces and studying the endless number of breeds of sheep, Clun Forest sheep became my breed of choice. Plans started for our sheep farm. We be-gan with six ewes and two rams that came as a package deal. Today, Fields Edge Farm manages 40-50 head of Cluns and produces approximately twenty lambs per year. We sell breeding stock, grass-fed mutton, and freezer lamb. We have also added equipment to sup-port my in-house fiber processing, specifically large galvanized wash tubs and an outdoor hot water spigot, a Pat Green swing picker and a Pat Green triple drum carder. I wash twenty of our own fleeces each year, run them through the swing picker and take them to one of the local mills to be spun. The remaining fleeces I’ve chosen for their finest qualities are washed, picked, and card-ed by my own hands here at the farm. These

incredibly springy, soft batts are sold in their naturally white state or dyed in endless colors and blends for hand spinners. The Clun Forest wool runs 28 to 32 microns, resists felting and holds its shape beautifully in a handmade garment. The wool’s crimpy texture makes it easy to spin into the finest lace weight yarn to the heaviest thick-and-thin single for rug hooking. The Clun Forest breed meets all our needs perfectly. In my own development of fiber arts skills, I have also discovered how many people are absolutely fascinated with learning. I work at the University of Maine Farmington which has connected me to many faculty and student opportunities to share my passion for farming and fiber. I often hear people state that they don’t have the money to start a hobby such as this, which has led me to teach students how to spin with nothing but dish soap to wash the wool, a brush to comb the fiber, and a rock and stick to spin. Kool Aid can be used for a

very inexpensive dye, and they are started on their way. People have been making yarn and cloth for generations with no tools available other than what their ingenuity provides them. We need to do the same. I have also been a guest instructor for a vir-tual farm development class where I share my farming budget and financial goals to help the students understand the costs, commitment, and logistics to sheep farming. I feel strongly that resourcefulness is an art that also needs to be taught. I hope I’m at least opening my students’ minds to a different way of think-ing. “I can’t” is not something I want to hear! I dream of eventually finishing the carriage house at our farm where I’ll have a place to host workshops on a variety of fiber arts and other traditional arts such as canning and food preservation, gardening, etc. Four years ago, my husband, Arthur and I purchased our 1790 farmhouse on forty-five

Resourcefulness is an Art

CONTINUED ON PAGE 21

Beautiful Clun Forest yarn spun by Kimberly Trider-Grant’s own hands.

Spinning with granddaughter, Katie

Fields Edge Farm, located in Leeds, welcomes visitors by appointment. Farm products are showcased at some of the local fairs in Maine. Face-book updates can be found at the Fields Edge Farm page. In addition, fi ber, woolen products, breeding stock, and freezer lamb orders (ready in December) can be placed through fi [email protected] or by phone at 524-54642. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you.


BY PEGGY CLARK LUMPKINS

I didn’t talk much when I was a child. I was a muralist who spent my time covering my walls with towering flowers, much to my mother’s dismay. My crayons, those illegal objects, were always confiscated. Fortunately, we visited my grandmother’s every Sun-day where there were loud, raucous gatherings. I often took refuge in my quiet uncle’s room. He didn’t talk much either, but tinkered with his radios and slipped me another box of crayons. He was my contraband supplier. When I was five years old, I was sick for an entire year with dysautonomia, a condition in which the autonomic nervous system doesn’t work properly. I spent that year with a Maine atlas, dream-ing and drawing, making my plan to grow up and become a painter who lived in Maine. By the time I was eight, I was attending a local art school which I think my parents sent me to in self-defense. I met my first paint-brush there and the world cracked wide open. My dad built me a paint box and took me to the store where he had an account for his painting business. He introduced me to the man behind the count-er, told him to always give me whatever I needed, and put it on his account! I filled up my paint box with colors and got some canvass-es. By the time I was ten years old I had pannier baskets for my bicycle and was biking to the ocean to plein air paint. Because I grew up in New York City, I was able to attend The High School of Art and Design. All the teachers were wonderful artists and those four years was quite a gift. I had endless free passes to all the art museums in the city and fell in love with Mon-et, but loved all the paintings! After spending a year in San Francisco at The Academy of Art College, I returned to New York and attended Pratt Institute. I only lasted a year there as I was just itching to just paint for itself, not for an assignment, so I took a leave of absence and never looked back. We moved to Brownville, Maine in 1987, our own “Northern Journey”. We built our home, studios, and gardens, thereby fulfill-ing my dreams. We home-schooled our two sons and raised them

in the embrace of art. They often accompanied me on plein air trips, all of us setting up our easels together on the shore. One morning in 2007, I woke up feeling the same way I did when I was five years old. This time it took me three years to heal, but I was able to use that time well. The only thing I could do was to lie in the garden and watch the clouds. During the winter I rest-ed by the window, carrying on my only job, allowing the clouds to fill me up! When I could hold a paintbrush again, clouds moved on to my canvas and they have been in more than half my paintings ever since. Currently, I work in two ways. My dominant life theme has been flowers which I grow and study then paint in the slow process of many layers of transparent glaze. Most of these paintings take between six months to a year to complete because I must wait for one layer to dry before adding the next, which can take a week or more. Sometimes a piece requires one hundred layers, but I manage most in just fifty. This is called “indirect” painting. I’m us-ing only one color at a time and the colors get mixed through the layers over time. This gives a more luminous quality to the flower petals than I could accomplish by mixing the color and painting just once. My aim is to understand the flower, to take this small thing and make it bigger so you can understand it, too. I usually work on ten pieces at a time so there’s always a dry painting wait-ing for my brush. My other way of working is to paint places around Maine. This is the opposite way of looking, because I’m seeing this huge world and making it small. Naturally, I have to leave things out. I just paint what appeals to me: the curve of a wave, the tilt of the sand running down to meet it, and the happy cloud friends I make that day. (Some people think I make up the clouds, but the clouds make up me!) I paint the way the place feels to me, sometimes en plein air, sometimes alla prima, and sometimes with a few glazes. These pieces are painted with the colors mixed on my palette instead of through layers over time. During the summer and into fall, I travel around the state par-ticipating in art shows. When people ask me what my style is, the only answer I can come up with is, “Mine”. Throughout our long beautiful winter and into late spring I paint every day, building a new body of work for the show season. I also ski through the woods when the snow is right and enjoy the quiet time, knowing it will be balanced in summer by all the people I meet. The whole world is a painting to me. It’s joie de vivre, loving the world. One must love what one paints. I go out into the world wide open. When I fall in love with a flower, a cloud, a shape, or a line in the sand then I begin to paint. Even before I have a canvas, the paint has begun to flow as a dance inside my being, swirling around in there, becoming part of me.

�� The Whole World is a Painting to Me

African Queen Lily, oil on canvas, 28 x 28 inches

“Painting is a love letter to being alive. It’s a thank you note to the world, to time, to the moment, the fl owers, the surf and the wind. Although my sons are out on their own now, I still feel their warmth and laughter with me when I go out to paint. Even though I’ve been painting for 50 years, I still feel like I’m just get-ting started, rubbing my hands togeth-er in excitement for the next piece.”Peggy Clark Lumpkins lives in Brown-ville, Maine. You can fi nd out more at www.peggyclarklumpkins.com and at www.colorafootpress.com.


The Transforming Power of MusicLisa Redfern is an award-winning singer and songwriter. She is cre-ator and host of the video podcast series, “Gingersnap”: A Conversa-tion and a Cookie with a Creative Mainer. She makes her home in Harpswell with Peter Keef in an 1850’s fi xer-upper within walking distance of the ocean. For upcom-ing gigs, to book her for concerts or voice-over work, or to buy her CDs, go to: www.lisaredfern.com

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My mother, an artist and educator, sang hymns and lullabies to me when I was a baby and a small child, bring-ing me a feeling of safety and comfort. My father, a folksinger, multi-instru-mentalist and educator, played and sang every day. These are my earliest memories of music in my home. When I was a young girl, my dad and I built a repertoire of early country songs and ballads that we sang for get-togethers, music parties, weddings, and a few co¡ ee houses. I don’t remember him teaching me how to harmonize with him. It just happened. I remember how good it felt to hear our voices braided together in this way. When my father died suddenly while I was in college, I lost my musical partner. It took some time for me to fi nd joy in singing again, but music was what I was drawn to for healing from that loss and many other losses that lay ahead. In the thirty or so years since, I’ve made eleven solo recordings (9 CDs), been fortunate enough to perform in

some extraordinary venues, and have shared the stage with some of my favorite performers and songwriters including Pete Seeger, The Roches, Cindy Kallet, Livingston Taylor, and Dave Mallett, to name a few. I’ve had great reviews, a lot of radio play and won some nice awards, but the most deeply meaningful musical experienc-es have been those where I have wit-nessed the power of music to inspire,

heal, and even transform lives. One way I’ve seen evidence of this is by the correspondence listeners have sent me over the years. The lullaby and hymn CD’s, in particular, have moved listeners to share their

struggles with depression, anxiety, loneliness, or loss; having been eased by a soothing melody or uplifting lyric. Among those letters is one from a couple who played the lullaby CD every day for their premature twins in the NICU. They swear the babies’ health readings improved because the music transformed the atmosphere in the care unit. Beyond mail, I’ve seen joy fi rst-hand in the faces of developmentally disabled adults in the Adirondacks as they learned new songs that we then recorded together. The joy upon hear-ing themselves on tape was unforget-table. Teaching songwriting to Maine teenagers wrestling with a sense of isolation, I’ve witnessed their uplifted spirits and new self-esteem born of facing emotions through writing and overcoming their fear of performing in front of others. I’ve seen the power of music when singing old songs to residents in the memory loss wards of retirement homes. There, where people are wheeled in and physically folded over, I’ve watched in wonder as they open up like fl owers in the sun and smile upon hearing a song from their youth. It’s challenging for me to sing through tears, but so worth it. As a

member of “Bread & Roses”, I’ve sung in women’s shelters in San Francisco and children’s wards in hospitals. I’ve beheld the safe harbor of happiness an hour of singing together can bring to women beaten down by life. I’ve heard the giggles and laughter that songs can pull out of children weakened by illness and hopelessness. At a house concert in Vermont a few years ago, I felt compelled to tell the back-story of my song, “Live Through the Ques-tions”, a story of my years struggling to become a mother and ultimately letting go. Afterward, a woman came up to me in tears of gratitude that I had shared my story as she was going through something very similar. In a very di¡ erent setting, I had the oppor-tunity to sing a dear friend’s favorite song, “You Are My Sunshine” with her within hours of her passing, surround-ed by loved ones. There are more stories to share like this in my musical life; too many to share here. But I want to tell one more—the most recent one. Last year I was asked to write a ballad about a 93-year-old Penobscot elder and hero from World War II. We became friends and he asked me to travel abroad to sing his song at a new war memorial situated on France’s

“Wow, I haven’t heard a voice like yours in 30 years. You sound like the original woman of folk.”

—Livingston Taylor

LISA REDFERN DISCOGRAPHY:Hurricane Music 2017 Full Circle Fire: The Ballad of Charles Shay (single song CD) 2016 Chickadee—all original songs in a folky, rootsy setting2014 Once In a While—favorite jazz standards, accompanied by a great band2013 A Living Prayer—hymns and inspirational songs2010 Sing Me Goodnight—deeply personal, tender lullabies2005 All is Bright—sacred, acoustic songs about the hope of Christmas2002 Soundtracks (sold out for now)—mostly original folky, swingy story-songs 1998 No Small Thing (sold out for now)—mostly original folky, swingy story-songs1994 In The Asking—mostly folk covers with 2 original songs(most available at www.lisaredfern.com or from www.cdbaby.com) Elfi n Records 1996 Hushabye, Lullaby (out of print)—comforting lullabies Eaglear Music1991 Mixed Company (cass only)—rootsy ballads and blues1990 I’ll Sing You to Sleep (cass only)—lilting lullabies

BY LISA REDFERN

Cody Barry photo

CONTINUED ON PG 21


A Stranger with a Present

The Selkie, Kate O’Keefe

BY KRISTEN LOLATTEPart 1 of Kristen’s tale can be found in Northern Journey’s Summer 2017 issue atwww.northernjourneysmagazine.com

As Muirin paddled back to shore, the low winter sun shone in the brilliant blue sky. That color of blue leaves one gasping at the wonder of it all; that blue makes one believe anything is possible. She stopped for a moment to peel o¡ her wetsuit, leaving it hanging about her waist. It may have been winter, but she still needed to be free; free of her wetsuit, free to be who she was meant to be. The sun slowly warmed her chilled body, making her wriggle and move sinuously while standing on her board. Peeling the suit o¡ in this way always reminded her of peeling o¡ her sealskin. She sighed. One day she would fi nd it again. Her long red hair hung lazily down her back. She hadn't cut in years. It was selkie hair, wild and untamed. As time had gone by, her mane had become increasingly woven with silver and white which now glistened in the bright sun. Her curls always had a mind of their own. The errant tendrils hung about her face and she was forever blowing them out of her eyes and mouth. Her body was strong and toned from paddling and yardwork. She was still tanned from the bygone summer sun; days spent at the beach or in her small yard. She was 48 now and life had been challenging sometimes, but relatively kind to her. She was a hard worker and wasn't fazed by what was fl ung her way. She was a selkie; water borne. She knew how to fl ow and be accepting of what is, and was always waiting what would be. She knew no other way. As she approached the rocky shore, her keen eyes noticed a figure perched upon a snowy rock. A sentinel of sorts; a watcher. No, an observer. She hadn't noticed when she had gone out, but then again, she had been gone a while. Many came down to the beach to take in the ocean and her power, so it wasn't entirely a surprise. What threw her off was the energy coming at her. She knew the observer was a “he”, and he was watching her. Over the years she'd become accustomed to people taking notice of her. She had eyes that always changed color, wild untamed hair, tattoos, an infectious laugh. Random people were always coming up to her wanting to touch her hair, hug her, or tell her their life story. She never really knew why this happened, but it most assuredly did. She just accepted that this is how she was and for whatever reason, this is how people reacted to her. They always walked away happy. No harm done. As she got closer to shore, she noticed the observer following her with his eyes, his gaze never wavering. He was still crouched upon his rock like a gargoyle. No, like a bird. Yes, that was it, like a bird. Like a crow. He was a shape shifter. Crafty, often mischievous ones, they

were. At least she knew what to expect. She pulled up onto shore and gathered her belongings before trekking up to her car. She put on hat and gloves and pulled a sweatshirt over her bare top half. The winter winds were suddenly picking up and she was thankful to be back on land. Board, paddle, water bag. She took a swig of piping hot tea from her water bottle and began to walk. She carried her board on her left side, to create a barrier between her and this crow.

She would have to walk within feet of him and he still hadn't moved. As she began to walk, he hopped down from his perch and began to approach. Her heart beat faster, but she was still wearing her post seal glow and she was determined not to let him ruin it. As he walked towards her, she mused aloud, “Gorgeous morning to be on the water. Hope you're enjoying your day. Not too many more days to be on the ocean; more snow will be coming soon. Enjoy it while you can!” Better to be polite and engage, but keep on moving. He walked alongside her now and she let this go on for a moment or two, and then stopped. She looked him straight in the eye, unwavering, determined to address this one so she could go about her day unhindered. “May I help you?” He smiled. It was a devilishly handsome smile, both of his dimples showed. She was a sucker for dimples. He was certainly handsome, this one, of medium height and athletic build. She normally wasn't drawn to men with dark eyes, but his eyes were different. They spoke

of times gone by, of a deep soul, of kindness and sorrow. He was a shape shifter alright, but not entirely shifty as it were. Nonetheless, she kept her board in place. “I have something for you, Muirin.” He opened his palm to display a sand dollar. “Do I know you?” she asked. “Yes and no. You'll remember sooner rather than later. Take this to add to your collection. It's a special one and you'll understand as soon as you hold it for a while. For now, let

me put it in your water bag for you. Go home and tend to your son. You two have a full day planned. You'll find me again when you're ready.” Muirin stood stock still. Normally, she wasn't ever still. She was incapable of standing still. The ocean ran through her veins and she forever swayed to its rhythm. She was always getting in trouble when she was younger. “Stop fidgeting, Muirin” or “Good gawd, child, do you have to go to the bathroom?” or “Please stop moving so we can take your picture.” Even now she had to move when she talked on the phone. When she cooked she stood in funny poses. When she walked, it was to her own indescribable rhythm. Moving, always moving. Not now though. She was still. She even forgot to breathe. She let out a huge gasp, like one who had just swam to the surface

and tasted that first sweet gulp of fresh air. “How do you? What did you? Who are you?” A woman who always had words to say, Muirin was now at a complete loss. She stumbled upon them like one walking barefoot in a room full of marbles. This stranger brushed her wind-blown cheek. Her skin tingled under his touch. It was electric. He smirked. “All in due time,” he said. He stared into her eyes briefly and walked off. She came back to her senses and yelled, “Were you going to give me the sand dollar?” She realized she must sound like a spoiled child and color immediately flushed her cheeks. He stopped and turned. “It's already in your water bag. No need to be embarrassed about asking me, Muirin. Trust me, it's in there.” She instinctively put her hand to see if her cheeks felt hot. “I'm not embarrassed. It's a winter windburn,” she called out. With a coy smile, he turned again. “Uh huh.” She looked down at her water bag. When had he done that? She stood for a moment more and put down her board. She needed her tea, kelp tea to ground her back to the present. Her grandmother had taught her to mix fresh kelp and water and slowly bring it to a boil. It was the life blood that chased away darkness and kept her whole. It kept her in tune with the sea. As she slowly took a few sips, she felt herself return. It was such an odd experience, but real nonetheless. In the bag she could see the sand dollar. She could feel its energy. She wanted to take it out, but its voice said, “Not now”. No, not now. The shape shifter was right. A full day awaited both her and her son. She took her board and continued to her car, humming as she walked. A seagull joined in overhead. There was an extra spring in her step and sparkle in her eyes. “My, what an interesting day it has been thus far,” she thought. “And something tells me, more is yet to come.” From a hidden place, the shape shifter said to himself, “Oh Muirin, you have no idea…”

When Kristen Lolatte isn’t writing, you'll fi nd her in the classroom working with autistic children. She also loves walking barefoot, paddle boarding, sword-fi ghting, and cooking

up wonderful foods in the kitchen. She lives with her son and three cats, Luna, Althea, and Willow in a 200-year old farm house in a small Maine town.


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Receiving Mail Feels Good: Five Reasons For Sending Some

BY CHRISTINE RICHARDS

When staying in touch with friends and family online or on your phone is so easy, why bother with writing and sending mail? Why bother with fi nding the right card, the appropriate stationery, someone’s address, buying stamps, or getting the outgoing mail—out?

Well, because getting mail feels good.

Whether it’s a hastily scribbled postcard mailed from some faraway place or a heartfelt thank you, people really enjoy getting mail. And it turns out; a bit of joy comes to those who write as well.

Here are fi ve reasons to consider sending real mail:

1) Finish a ConversationIt was a spinach salad for me, grilled fl atbread for her, and like most of our lunch dates, we covered a lot of ground. It was only after we parted that I remembered I forgot to mention... So I put it in a letter. Whether it’s something you forgot to tell some-one, or something you want to tell someone, letter writing is a great platform to keep the conversation going and adds a new dimension to your relation-ship.

2) It Can Help You Say Things That Matter and Express Your GratitudeSo many of us are quick to brush o¡ praise and compliments, embarrassed by the attention, and dis-missive of our own achievements. Yet it’s good to be recognized, to hear we’ve done well, and are appreci-ated. Are you especially proud of someone? Are you grateful for the guidance, love, and support you’ve received from someone? Write a letter of apprecia-tion, thank you, or praise. Is there a specifi c event or recent accomplishment of note? Write about that. Writing gives you the time and space to express what you want the other person to hear, and studies show it can boost your own sense of wellbeing, too.

3) It’s Good Writing PracticeWhether you write letters, post online, or need to write for paid or volunteer work, good writing takes practice. Up your game with better word choices and better sentences. Not long, fl owery, or overly complicated words and sentences, but more creative and descrip-tive sentences. If you write about your garden, don’t just write about your cucumbers; write about your prickly cucumbers. Write about a recent adventure. Describe an event in detail with words that help capture the setting, sights, and sounds. Don’t just write that dinner was delicious; write about how fl u¡ y the mashed pota-toes were. Without being sarcastic or insincere, have some fun with the words you choose. Start with scratch paper, write a bit, edit, and write some more. When you’re ready, copy it over on your stationery of choice, put it in an envelope, and mail it!

4) It’s an Outlet for Artistic CreativityThe envelope is your canvas: with possibilities rang-ing from decorative lettering, illustration, vintage stamps, rubber stamps, and colorful washi tape, envelope design is in a category all its own. For stationery, you can start with a blank sheet of paper or re-purpose and recycle found papers. Design your own or create something special for the person you’re writing to—or what you’re writing about.

5) Share Your Stories “The neighbor’s chickens are squawking. We sit on the back porch and watch them like it’s TV—sort of a chicken documentary. One goes in the coop, they all

go in. One comes out, they all come out. And peck, peck, peck. There’s Ziggy (the hen with orange feath-ers), Jimmy (the speckled one), and three others. They spend a good part of the day circling in and out of the coop. Peck, peck, pecking.” That’s one of my favorite, and well-received, letters. It was fun to write and fun to talk about after the letter arrived at its destination. Each letter you write is an opportunity to share a story—a bit about you and a bit about your life; stories from today and stories from memory. Do you remember what it was like meeting your col-lege roommate for the fi rst time? Chances are your freshman nephew or homesick daughter might enjoy hearing your story as theirs unfold.

Did something happen today that made you think of someone? Tell them about it—in a letter. Do you share hobbies or interests with someone? Write to them about something you’re working on, practicing, or struggling with.

Getting mail is an event. Our most treasured corre-spondence is read and re-read, tucked into drawers or put on display. So go ahead, express your love, say thank you for being patient, for being such a good cook, for being so kind. Cheer on and congratulate, ask questions, and share ideas.

Someone may surprise you and write back. Then you’ll see—getting mail feels good!

Christine Richards is an avid letter writer and founder of Postmark1206. For more tips, inspira-tion, and a postcard welcome, visit her at www.postmark1206.com


Debby Stubbs

Fall Moose Family

Male Gray Fox

Chipmunk, Holly Berries

Bluejay in Frozen Birdbath


Pansies, oil on canvas, 24 x 38 inches

Looking Landward from Scarborough Beach, oil on canvas, 13 x 42 inches

Wild Iris, oil on canvas, 16 x 48 inches

Peggy Clark Lumpkins


Snow Day Owl, Silkscreen, 8 x 11 inches, Ariel Nelson

He appeared with the first flakes of snow, swooping in low out of the woods and into the field. He took up sentinel duty on an eight-foot tall fence post by the garden. From a distance he looked like a huge ball of yarn or a post with a shawl on top. He shifted from foot to foot, his head swiv-eling in its fuzzy gimbals to stare at the man in the house with the binoculars—me. I think he had been waiting knowingly on the verge of this day since last night, when his hoots from up on the knoll spooked the dogs. He knew what was in the wind. The little birds at the feeder seemed to sense his pres-ence haunting the field. As we filtered Sunday’s weather

reports and watched the pictures from the Midwest storm track, he no doubt was biding his time on some mizzen hackmatack spar. Now he sat thinking—in no rush to leave; settled, solitary, and focused—just like we were, with this surprise pause. The mice must have been thankful for a few inches of snow with an owl’s gaze beating down on their mown me-tropolis. It was tunnel time and the deeper the snow, the more owl-proof their passages from seed stores to bur-rows though I knew from past winters I would eventually see a wing-flutter imprint on the snow just at the surprise terminus of a path of very small footprints. The owl was not here to make snow angels. The first snow day I remember—when I was in 4th grade—we waited for what seemed an eternity to know if school was cancelled, though it seemed obvious from the power of the storm. Announcement of snow days arrived by radio and our town began with W, putting us at the end of a very long list. “Weston”…finally! Jubilee. Hosannas and praise. Snow angels for sure. And digging. As soon as the plows had made two passes down our road, my brother and I had all the mountains necessary for serious tunneling. The deeper the snow, the greater the challenge. How long a burrow could we engineer without cave-ins? How large an igloo—enough for the whole gang? How many minutes could we endure on our bellies in the icy depths? Would Mom ever let us sleep out here in our arctic lair with flashlights? Would she even find us? Get the trowels, buckets, and shovels. On with the snow pants and boots, mittens and hats, for a preliminary shift of burrowing, following the fence line along the driveway to the road then a left turn into the cavern within the mas-sif central by the mailbox where we could lie in sodden exhaustion and listen to the beating of our hearts—muffled as mice. Eventually snow days meant profit. When we had shoveled our own driveway, lucrative neighborhood jobs awaited. Once Mrs. Gibson paid me $10.00 when there was twelve inches of snow and her husband was laid up. Our driveway was twice as long as hers. Think of what our conscription saved Dad! But the lure of money wore thin compared with the lure of the gift of a day of leisure swooping down on us out of the sky, with time drifting up in unexpected corners, the call of neglected books, and the authorized complacency of a weekday afternoon nap by the fire. Yes, a snow day is an owl, descending noiselessly from the treetops on extended woolen wings, inviting us to bur-row into memory, silence, and secret mines.

The Snow Day Owl

BY TODD NELSON

Todd Robin Nelson is an educator and writer living in Penobscot, Maine. For over 35 years, he has been a teacher and principal in public and independent schools in fi ve states. His essays on school and family life have appeared frequently in Maine and national publications, including Maine Public Radio. His favorite topic is simply Maine, where his Colby and Holden ancestors settled the Moose River Valley. Todd can be contacted at 82 Wardwell Point Road, Penobscot, ME 04476

Todd’s daughter, Ariel Rose Nelson is a freelance illustrator and graph-ic designer in Philadelphia. A fre-quent collaborator with her father, the two publish a monthly column with illustration called, “A Second Look” in the Penobscot Bay Press newspapers. Ariel earned her BFA from Glasgow School of Art, in the city of her Nelson ancestors. She can be contacted at [email protected] and at 337 West Union Street, Apt 1, West Chester, PA 19382.


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What I Have to Say“Diana Marc-Aurele has been helping the students of Bowdoinham Community School become successful readers and writers for nearly twenty years. In many cases she is the teacher who sparks a student's passion for the reading or writing process by recommending the perfect book or providing that meaningful opportu-nity to write for an audience. Diana is the chairperson of the Maine Student Book Award Committee, representing Bowdoinham Community School and the Maine Literacy Council.”—Chris Lajoie, Principal, Bowdoinham Community School

Fall BY CASSIDY R.G. RUGGLESLeaves twirl and play fall so softly so silentlyAs the bird call fades awayGently slowly summer fades Fall is coming as leaves fallFlags of warning telling us fall is comingCold wind blows Wind so cold it chills our bones Time to get out warmer clothes Snow lingers overhead And we all knowFall is coming Cold wind blows

We love to snowmobile! It’s so fun! It was Friday and it had just snowed. I was happy to come home so we could play outside before dark. We had dinner already and my dad said, “Let’s go snowmobiling tonight!” We got the snowmobiles out and put them in the snow. It’s a pretty cool process. We were o¡ . “Mom, it’s so pretty!” I ex-claimed. “I know. Don’t you just love it? It’s daz-zling!” Mom answered, sounding amazed. The snow was sparkling, and the trees looked like they had been sprinkled with fresh powder with sparkles. It was a white wonderland with sprinkles. We were amazed, beautifi ed! We couldn’t describe it! As we went along, our toes were nipped by the cold, but we didn’t notice because we were thankful to be there and to live in Maine, to have the chance to make this amaz-ing memory. It was crazy beautiful. Dad stopped then Grady stopped, then Mom and I stopped. Dad got o¡ . “You guy’s doing okay?” he asked.

“Do you see this? It’s amazing! So pretty!” I said. The view was breathtaking and every-one was in awe, even though my mom and I couldn’t feel our feet. It was that cold. “Yea Carly, it is really amazing, ” Grady answered. I started to say something then stopped. He could get on my nerves some-times. “Yes, Carly it is very pretty. Don’t start bickering, you two!” Dad said in a fi rm voice. We stopped right away and got back to the snowmobiles so we could keep going. The headlights made the snow shimmer and made the treetops look bedazzled. Rid-ing with my mom on the green, or sometimes the red snowmobile, is smooth and fun. It makes me feel warm on the inside, but it can get very cold sometimes! Soon we got to the Tunnels. The Tunnels go under the roads, and they are an awesome place. There is also my favorite tree that you can see when the cars come, because of their headlights. It glitters in the light. It isn’t just a tree, it’s my tree. This is what snowmobiling in Maine can do. It’s amazing and I love it. It creates memories.

A Dazzling Snowmobile Trip in Maine

BY MAILIE SMAHA“Eeee! I'm so excited to see what I got!” I said as I tore open a small package covered with beautiful gold wrapping paper. As I tore it open it started to come into focus; it was another thing for the Easy Bake Oven I got a couple years ago. “Thank you, Mom!” I yelled to her from the living room. I tore open three more presents and came to a stop, noticing a tiny package way back behind our Christmas tree. I slowly and steadily reached my arm back and snatched the present. As I tore the pink wrapping paper o¡ I thought about what was in the box. I tore o¡ the last bit of wrapping paper and saw what it was. It was actually something I really needed, a new DS charger! It was really nice; white with a bit of blue on the top. I took it out of the clear plastic box and that's when it came to me. “Oh no!” I thought in my head. It's not the

type charger that will fi t my old Nintendo DS. It's the kind for the awesome new 3DS that I’ve been wanting for the whole year. I nicely said thank you to my parents, who had at least tried to get a new charger for me. As I moved on to the next present, I hoped so badly it would be the new Nintendo 3DS of my dreams, but it wasn't. It was still a very cool idea that just didn't work out. What happened was I opened the present all excited then my heart dropped. It was the exact two games I wanted, but they would only work with the 3DS. So now I had three presents I couldn’t use! On the outside everyone thought I was happy and everything was awesome, but on the inside there was a thought that I was wrong. I would never get a 3DS for Christmas. I was still very thankful that I got so many other presents, but all I really wanted was a 3DS. There were a couple more presents left

so I opened them all up. Still no 3DS. “UGH!” My mom said as she held her back. “Honey, can you get me those cards hanging on the tree? My back is killing me.” I found this to be fairly weird because my mom never complained about her back. I did as I was told and went to the front of the tree and got all of the cards down. Then I saw it. There was one last present hidden in the tree. I nearly dropped the cards, I was so excited! I knew what this present was! It was the present of my dreams: the same size, the same smell, the same weight. I slowly, gently put it down on the fl oor then ripped the wrapping paper right o¡ and this is when I got it. My mom only told me to get those cards on the tree so I could see the present they hid there. All those “pointless” presents had a meaning! They went to my brand new 3DS! It was a Christmas miracle!

A Christmas Miracle

Left to Right: Cassidy Ruggles, Carly Satterfield, Mailie Smaha.

Chis Lajoie Photo

BY CARLY SATTERFIELD


Fall Foliage Reflection in Pond, Debby Stubbs

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Winter 2017-2018 Northern Journeys Mid-coast Maine

Muse of IllusionBY AUTUMN MURPHY

Hunting down words in dense forests, sprinting after hazy stories,Following tornadoes of lines that changes path during a second's tic, Fleeting phrases mix with taunting laughter and escape.

Engulfed in the game of dangled stanzas,Madness descends, twirling with chaotic syncopation, Desperate for more than a teasing kiss of poetry.

Collapse on green grass,Hear the birdsong chorus,Bathe in sunlight's blinding glory, Inhale perfume from radiant fl owers.

Stop with the illusions, Muse.

Where in hell is the storm, full of fury and passion? The battering winds, the rolling thunder, the sudden chill. Teeth clenching, shaking, blinded by driving rain.

Muse, release lightning. Light the creative spark afl ame.Breathe in smoke and exhale ash.Thoughts written in bones shout as lost stories.

Dance poetry with me, elements and soul combined.Weave a battered heart and fractured mind in song.Words will chase us this time, my Muse,

As long as we write as one.

“I was born and haven’t yet died.” William Garrett is the pen name for Benjamin Barr, Jr. who began writing poetry as a teenager and continues to this day; however, over the years he has kept most of it to himself. He works as a freelance writer for the Katahdin Region News section of the Lincoln News and makes his home in Millinocket. He enjoys running, genealogy, and playing a mountain dulcimer.Autumn Murphy is a storyteller for the seeking soul, an artist of magical quilted things, and a friend to animals. She wanders a pagan path through nature’s mysteries. Snippets of poetry and writing can be found on her blog at www.heartofautumn.com.

The poetry muse visits both Father and Daughter

Autumn and I,on vacation to my home;

Stop on Route 1:Flea marketHoulton, Maine.

I am lookingfor old books;But fi nd none.

Yet, what I discoveris dulcet tonesin the wind.

I’d never seen,nor heardthat sweet sound…

Till that August daywhere it layon a table.

What is it?I inquired.Dulcimer…

Ever see one?No, I reply. And it is….

From Virginia;In the mountains…Like what you hear?

Aroostook County:winds sweep across potato fi elds; playing

three-string melody,echoing in the air…a sweet song…

for Autumn and me.

Autumn and IBY WILLIAM GARRETT


FEED MEWarm Up Your Winter:Lemon Pepper Chicken Soup & Hot Chocolate

Back in 1955, our Dad had a vision…Fine Wines & Beer, Pizza & Subs

Open Mon.-Thurs. & Sat. : 8 a.m.-8 p.m. Fri. until 9 p.m.54 Pleasant St. Brunswick

207-729-9531Thank you to our patrons for over 60 years of success!

BY LUCY LAJOIE“BAGERRK! Cluck, Cluck, BAGERRK!” Apparently, our nineteen chickens don’t like the thought of my favorite cold-weather dish: Lemon Pepper Chicken Soup, made with a velvety home-made chicken stock, fresh vegetables, lots of lemon juice, salt, freshly ground black pepper, and plump,

juicy, fl avorful roasted chicken. Just picture a pot of this soup simmering on the stove, making your mouth water to the point of a drowning hazard. Now you understand why I chose to share this recipe. Eating this soup makes me feel like I am HOME. My fi rst memory of eating this soup is when I was about two years old and my Grammy, Karen Schneider (the editor) came for dinner. I was obsessed with the soup, or more specifi cally, with the celery in the soup. I sloshed the bowl around, trying to get that last piece of celery with my fi ngers; the other components in the soup left untouched. I mean, of course I touched them, I just wouldn’t eat them. I asked for more celery, but Mom said, “Only when you’ve fi nished the rest of your soup.” I was upset. Grammy snuck a few pieces of HER celery into MY soup, and everything was better again. That became the routine when my Gram-my and I had soup together. Lemon Pepper Chicken Soup has the steaming, succulent amazingness you would expect in your grandmother’s meals, except my mom and dad get all the credit for this one. The spinach, rice, and chicken fl oating in the homemade stock com-bined with the cheerful way the lemon and pepper

brighten it all up makes you want to slurp this soup up bowlful after bowlful! It’s GREAT if you have a cold. Roast a nice big chicken and make a nourish-ing stock. Salt generously! (That’s what my mom always says.)

LEMON PEPPER CHICKEN SOUPServes 61 onion, diced2 large carrots, diced1 stalk celery, diced1 tablespoon olive oil1 tablespoon butter2 quarts homemade chicken stock, made with a roasted chickenJuice of 2 lemons1 cup jasmine rice2-3 cups roasted, seasoned chickenFreshly ground black pepper & salt to taste1-2 cups fresh spinach, chopped

Sauté onion, carrots, and celery in olive oil and butter in a big soup pot until softened. Add chick-en stock and lemon juice. Add rice, simmering for 30 minutes or until rice is cooked. Add salt, pepper and chicken, keeping heat low. Add spin-ach; cover and cook until the spinach is wilted. Add more freshly ground pepper when serving.

Besides soup, what are my favorite things to have after I come in from playing outside in the cold? The answer is obvious. Hot chocolate! Who doesn’t like a good ol’ steaming mug of rich hot chocolate with marshmallows, a dollop of “whop cream” as I like to call it--thanks to my aunt Katie) and chocolate nibs? And I like having a chocolate mustache! I also like that hot chocolate is so versatile. You can really experiment with it. I’m sharing three of my favorites: Classic Hot Chocolate, Peppermint Hot Chocolate, and Spicy Hot Chocolate.

Prendre plaisir! (That means, “Enjoy, take pleasure in, delight!” in French!)

CLASSIC HOT CHOCOLATEServes 21 ½ cups milk2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder2-3 tablespoons sugar½ teaspoon vanilla¼ teaspoon cinnamonTiny pinch of salt

Simmer milk on medium heat in a saucepan for 3 minutes. Add cocoa powder, sugar, cinna-mon, and salt. Whisk. Continue heating milk and whisking until all the dry ingredients are dissolved in the milk. Serve in mugs with marsh-mallows or whipped cream.

PEPPERMINT HOT CHOCOLATEFollow Classic Hot Chocolate recipe, substitut-ing 2-4 drops of organic peppermint essential oil for cinnamon.

SPICY HOT CHOCOLATEFollow Classic Hot Chocolate recipe, increasing cinnamon to ½ teaspoon and adding ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper.

Lucy Lajoie, age 11, is a lover of food (a love she shares with the rest of her fami-ly) and spends all the time she can in the kitchen. She’s working towards being a world-renowned food critic, but isn’t get-ting far yet because she likes everything she eats. Lucy helps care for 35 animals, including two dogs, three cats, nineteen chickens, three goats and their six kids, and her two younger brothers, which she counts as animals. She lives in Bowdoin and has a great life, eating the amazing meals she and her family prepare together.

Shannon Lajoie Photo


The only free-standing certifi ed green restaurant in the state of Maine, The Great Impasta recently received a three out of four star rating for their certifi cation. Delighting diners since 1984, this well-loved gathering place on Brunswick’s Maine Street, known for their creative Italian dishes and family atmosphere, is now headed by long-time employee Lynn Labonte and carries on the tradition of providing delicious meals complemented with Italian wines. From light lunches, to special celebrations, to catering for memorable events, a warm and welcoming experience at The Great Impasta awaits. Mangiamo!

Serving the southern mid-coast area since 1952, The Freeport Café is a family-owned and operated restaurant located just o¡ 295 at U.S. Route 1 in Freeport. We serve breakfast all day, every day. Come in for our award-win-ning clam chowder or try out our best of the best break-fasts! Craving a BIG cinnamon roll, stu¡ ed French toast, breakfast bowl, build-your-own-omelet, specialty sand-wich, rib-sticking entrée, or a basket brimming with fried seafood? Look no further! If this isn’t enough of an entice-ment, we also serve homemade desserts, beer and wine. Find our daily specials posted on Facebook. Open seven days a week from 6:00 am to 8:00 pm.

Founded in 1904, Derosier’s is Freeport’s oldest fam-ily-run business. Located across the street from L.L. Bean you can fi nd tons of delicious subs, pizza, salads and more. If you’re stopping by in the warmer months Derosier’s o¡ ers a full line of ice cream and gelato. During the colder months warm up with one of our delicious soups or one of our signature Toasties - described by Maine Magazine as a “warm-toasted miracle”! 120 Main St., Freeport; 865-6290.

At The Brunswick Diner, “nothing could be fi ner”. Our classic Worcester dining car has been at 101 Pleasant St. in Brunswick since 1946, with the same owners and sta¡ for 20 years. You’ll fi nd down-home cooking at good down-home prices. All our food is homemade on the premises. We’re famous for our all-day breakfasts and have the best lobster rolls in Maine. Our Brunswick Burger is out of this world! Our friendly sta¡ will serve you fantastic food with great nostalgia.

Henry & Marty Restaurant and Catering features local, organic food including vegetarian, vegan, and gluten-free o¡ erings. Customer favorites include Korean Bi Bim Bop, Pan-seared Maine Sea Scallops, and Shaker Lemon Pie with Olive Oil Ice Cream. Creative specials are always in the mix along with a variety of libations from our full bar. Open Tuesday through Sunday 5-9PM, seven days a week during the summer. Find us at 61 Maine Street, downtown Brunswick and at henryandmarty.com.

The Lighthouse Variety & Deli-Breakfast, lunch and dinner 7 days a week, served all day. We’re more than pizza and subs! We have mouth-watering meals including our original break-fast sandwiches with homemade hash. Try our Polar Bear, or one of our daily specials like pot roast or New England boiled dinner. We also have convenience store and grocery items. Ample parking with convenient drive-around lot. 51 Harpswell Rd., Brunswick—Mon.-Thur. 5:30a.m.-9 p.m., Fri. 5:30 a.m.-10 p.m., Sat. 6 a.m.-10 p.m., Sun. 7 a.m.-8 p.m.

Open since 1996, The Big Top Deli serves breakfast and lunch seven days a week with a selection of menu choices that take up a whole wall, assuring that you’ll never get tired of eating the same thing. Enjoy one of our creations or get crazy and concoct one of your own. We use only Boars Head meats and cheeses, assuring that our customers are getting the best! You’ll be taken care of under The Big Top!

The Asian Garden serves mouth-watering Asian dishes from China, Japan and Thailand. Our menu o¡ ers a wide variety of lunch and dinner special combinations and favorites. General Tao Chicken, pad thai, teriyaki, and vegetarian dishes are all prepared especially for you. Enjoy a cocktail and a meal of exot-ic taste treats in our dining room, or take advantage of our extensive take-out menu and order on-line at www.asiangardenme.com.

“Nothing Could Be Finer!” Est. 1946

101 Pleasant St. Brunswick 721-1134

Friday and Saturday24 hours

GREAT IMPASTA42 Maine Street, Brunswick207.729.5858 thegreatimpasta.net

Please Support the Restaurants That Support the Arts

DEROSIER’S

120 MAIN ST., FREEPORT865-6290

29 U.S. Route 1, Freeport

207-869-5113


Serving breakfast, lunch and dinnerNostalgic car hop, indoor and outdoor

seating & take-out available

725-2886

18 Bath Rd.Brunswick, ME

Sea Dog is the place to enjoy a locally-crafted beer and an extensive choice of appetizers, sandwiches and entrees that focus on local, seasonal ingredients. Join us for our Sunday Brunch, served from 10:00 a.m.-2:00 p.m. Noted for its venue for up and coming artists to show their work, the Sea Dog is a happening place with something for everyone, including Trivia Tuesday, live music on Fridays, and karaoke on Saturdays. Join our Mug Club and reap all the great rewards! 1 Bowdoin Mill Island #100 in Topsham, 207-725-0162.

Fairground Café is located in the Topsham Fair Mall, Topsham, Maine- Suite 10/11. We provide de-licious home-cooked food for Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner at great prices. The Fairground Café has received the award for best breakfast spot in Mid-coast Maine for 13 years in a row! Also check out our banquet room that can accommodate up to 65 people for any type of Family, Business, or Personal event. Stop on in to the Fairground Café where we are committed to making your dining experience the best it can possibly

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