Bernie remembers the Bean family’s sporting goods store selling sensible boots, fishing rods, and hunting & camping equipment from the two-story farmhouse with creaky oiled hardwood floors on the main street in sleepy Freeport village. The family began the outdoor-gear store in 1912, back when you would see many familiar faces talking away with one of the clerks, usually a Bean family member. Of course, Bernie was merely a young buck then, a “hippie” during his high school days back in the 1960s.

They now live in Cape Elizabeth, driving past the Burnham and Morrill baked bean-canning factory on the bay on their way up I-295 to Brunswick. Discussing the improvement in odor wafting from the 3rd story windows of the factory, they reminisce about the offensive smell of Stinson’s fish canning factory on the waterfront in Long Reach, just above the BIW shipyard where they worked so many years.

Now Bernie is a grandfather, driving the posted speed limit on Atlantic Route One into Brunswick in his conservative beige Volvo station wagon with Lindy, his wife, and grandmother to their twin grandsons by his side. Lindy and Bernie met at White’s Beach next to the big bonfire at the Freaker’s Ball and Concert. That was the summer they had both graduated, were married in the moonlight there, barefoot on the cool sand before a dozen of their friends, several short but passionate weeks later.

Lindy and Bernie manage a tiny natural food shop on Maine Street now that they have both retired from working the second shift at the shipyard in Bath. Many changes in their state and the world in the fifty-odd years of their lives have passed swiftly. Remembering the white water rafting, climbing Mt. Katahdin, kayaking the Saco River, they smile at the memories they have shared. They attended the launching of the state-of-the-art destroyer, DDG-1000, named the Zumwalt by BIW, completed in 2016.

As they take the I-295 exit onto Pleasant Street in Brunswick, they each turn to the other and smile an all-knowing familiar smile of comfort, a hand seeks another and fingers entwine. They share with one another a good life, at the salty and quiet pace of Midcoast Maine, “the way life should be.”


Where would you imagine a nymph to spend the starry nights of summer? In the cool deep forest where the fireflies serve as lanterns, lighting the way to her velvety thick, moss-covered bed, of course!


She awakens in the early dawn to delight at the sight of a dew-kissed spider web, sparkling in the golden sunrise like a lacy doily illuminated by twinkle lights. The faeries of the forest arrived. Each bearing a treat of refreshing spearmint berries for her to nibble on for breakfast. Spying a honeycomb left behind by a friendly neighboring bear, which must have been startled into abandoning it, the nymph scoops it up on her way to the spring for a quick drink of fresh spring water mixed with a quick stir of honey.


When the light misty fog of morning lifted, she was stepping out from under her invigorating waterfall shower. Carefully arranged lacy twigs in her hair, enabling her to travel unseen across the lush green meadow grass leaning toward the sun, she made plans to run with the fawns at midday.



The second marriage for both, their intentions were to elope on a magical island off the coast of Maine. That day they were married on the Monhegan Island dock on a glorious clear sunny morning, despite the forecast of a grey and rainy day. Wearing tiny white leather ballerina shoes and a dress she designed of antique curtain lace discovered at a little shop in Hallowell. She carried a feathery green bouquet of maidenhair fern he had freshly picked that morning as his gift to her on their way to catch the Laura B. out to the island.


They sat quietly holding hands in the back seats en route on the Laura B. coast guard boat out to Monhegan, fingers linked, smiling nervously, reflective of their separate lives, apprehensive of their future together. They were both excited about their secret trip. The Captain, attentive at his helm, looked back and forth overseeing his passengers with a watchful eye, intent on his destination in the distance.

Met at the dock by two anxious old friends, Zoe with her brilliant smile and Newt in his flamboyant Mexican Sombrero, who were to stand as witnesses at the ceremony. Moments after changing into their Mexican-themed wedding clothes, the bride and groom met at the agreed upon spot on the dock. He predictably, arrived first. She could not keep her dried chili pepper earrings with silver balls gleaming in the sun, and chili pepper corsage from flipping around in the slight breeze. No matter, they were on a secret mission to be married and not many would even notice.

Clutching her copy of the Prophet in one hand, her bouquet of ferns and bright red chili peppers in the other, she filled her lungs with brisk salt-air, for a moment looked upward into the blue sky and rounded the corner of the boathouse. He was a handsome groom in his top hat, wearing the Mexican print shirt and satin tails she had sewn for him, but all she could see was his kind face and the tears in his eyes, twinkling in the sunshine.

As they said their vows on Marriage on the dock, under the warm August sunshine, with guidance from Justice Karen W. quoting from the Prophet, the Captain swung his boat around in the little harbor where passengers cheered & whistled as they threw handful after handful of birdseed at the groom and the “Secret Bride” of Monhegan!


The Judge inhales long, exaggerated breaths through flaring nostrils, expelling air slowly through his aged lips, blue veins visible through the thin, dry skin, beginning to crack at the corners of his mouth. He ponders how many hours he has listened to cases such as this one, most with life-altering conclusions. Still, he listens attentively from his bench, gavel in hand.


Behind those inquisitive eyes, he silently yearns to exchange places, only for a fleeting moment with the offender, just to sneak a glimpse of what he harbors within, what makes him tick. Ironically, he tries to imagine that solitary moment of exhilaration when one is convinced of the need to commit the alleged crime, blocking the apparent consequences of being caught. He wonders, “what kind of emotion could possibly override logic and reason, knowing the consequences of being caught?” He realizes most motivations to commit the crimes in the cases before him today were mainly done out of desperation. Other cases are committed under the influence of addictive substances, and for those individuals, he has the most compassion, regardless of the crimes. He knows too well the disease of addiction, has his own skeletons in the closet, and at least two of those skeletons are hardly cold yet.

Beneath a cumbersome, flowing robe, he sits in academic judgment of the crimes committed by others, standing there in his courtroom, now frightened and anxious. He is an envious man with starry green eyes, hiding his secret envy from the courtroom filled with witnesses, curious onlookers, law students, as well as the accused and their defense attorney’s.

Today he considers with each breath the impact of what his decision might have on the life of the person standing before him on this day.

Here sits Judge B. Mused.


Considering the purple mountains’ majesty helps us envision Katahdin Katy’s private world.  Katy herself is majestic, tall, and slender with basic but chiseled features. She takes long, reflective walks barefoot from May through October. Sometimes after jogging or spending quiet time on the mountaintop she performs intricate Yoga poses. Waking before dawn each day Katy begins with stretches, hanging from her yoga sling hung from a beam in the log cabin studio ceiling before her trek to the summit of Mt. Katahdin. Sitting patiently on a large granite overhang, she waits to catch the first rays of sun licking ever so slowly over the land, casting a crimson hue over the mountaintop, warming her tanned face.


Some days her hike is strenuous and invigorating, ramping up her energy to accomplish more in that day than in other entire weeks. On other days her thighs felt as though they each weighed a ton and were challenging to lift left, lift right, walk forward. It seemed nothing productive or inspiring was accomplished and that seemed to depend on whatever she allowed her mind to harbor. She rented too much space in her mind for the troubles of others she cared about and allowed worry to affect her negative or positive choices, impacting entire days. There existed no “best friends” with whom she consulted. Oh, she had friends but was cautious about savoring the few people whose company she rarely did enjoy. She enjoyed visiting them at her leisure and infrequently when driving around local towns, some days more appealing than hiking alone.

Along the return trip to her cabin, she stops, stretches to breathe in the clear mountain air, bending to pick a fresh bouquet of mountain laurel, knowing the bright red berries will remind her of the mornings’ blazing sun. Even through the drizzle on any misty day, Katy is inspired to integrate each color, shape, and texture her eyes have absorbed, translating them into her pottery.

She sat gazing wistfully out her wide studio window across the abandoned paper wasp nest, peering through the pinecones, between the pieces of pink granite, and onto the sparkling line of blue stones on her wide windowsill. Katy pondered a moment to consider how she could incorporate the scent of the cleansing raindrops beating down on the rocky cliffs or how the fresh dewdrops evaporating from the blossoming flowers could be included somehow in her clay.

Her breathing was the only sound inside her studio. Perhaps the bird songs outside the studio entertained, soothed, and inspired her? She began the process by energetically slapping a couple heavy handfuls of cold, raw, grey clay onto her pottery table. Mindfully kneading it, warming it, she guided it into a beautiful example of the design she saw in her mind on her manual pottery wheel. Fascinating swirls, lines, and patterns were carved into the formed pottery, slip colors applied, and when firing was complete, Katy held the cooled object of beauty up high, bringing it into the light.


Katy hopes her pots and vases somehow reflect the love of her life in this extraordinary place, revealing a glimpse of her rare moments of wonder on the mountain. Katy hopes to enrich other lives with those not familiar with the beauty of where the mountains meet the sea.