Soggy Little Cat Feet . . .

My apologies to Carl Sandburg. It's a foggy, overcast day here in Maine, and what started out as charming, New England fishing village coastal romantic atmospheric haze is quickly dissolving (oh, how I wish) into plain old crappy weather. The first day you kept saying to yourself, "Oh, isn't this beautiful? The mists are just like you always dream they are going to be in Maine." By the fifth day your shower towel still hasn't dried out, your Birkenkstocks are damp (though you've never worn them outside) and even the dollar bills they hand you back at the local market are moist. I am praying for just one clear, dry day. I think the locals are as well, but they don't hold out much hope. A Maine calendar I saw advertised today had these days noted in July: 2 - Winter finally ends; 3 - Spring begins; 4 - Summer is here!; 5 - Fall begins and ends; 6 - Winter resumes. I think they're serious.

It is still a pretty place and my second lobster dinner was as good or better than the first. We've taken to beachcombing, where we can get free souvenirs just by looking down. I look up, too, occasionally to see if the fog has cleared enough to photograph a quaint grouping of fishing boats. Then I look down again and take more photos of rocks. The rocks are rather nice. Sam has taken to hunting down beach glass. I did have to explain to him that if the labels are still attached to them, they are considered litter. He's getting the idea.

I found a lovely photo essay book of the Maine coastline today here in town. It was a paperback and the corners were a bit wrinkled, I supposed because it was on display and had been thumbed through by tourists like myself. I asked the store owner if he had another copy and he went back and dug one up for me. I thanked him and explained that the first one looked like it had been a bit too admired. "It's the weather, actually," he said. "Hard to keep any paper products from curling."

I get the idea.