On Saturday, in our new EV—the Chevy Bolt—I drove Clif and Dee to Brunswick to catch the train to Boston, where they will be staying until Wednesday. The big occasion for this trip is an early birthday present to Clif from our daughter Shannon and her husband Mike: a ticket to The Who concert at Fenway Park on Tuesday, August 26.
For a variety of reasons, mostly involving my creaky knees, I decided to stay home. Even at the best of times, I’m not much of a traveler—I’m one who likes sleeping in my own bed—and my creaky knees have clinched the deal for me: home is best.
Time to be honest: Being on my own is a bit of a vacation. I don’t have to plan much for supper. (Poached eggs on English muffins? Yes, please.) I can watch what I want on television. (I’ve settled on Back to the Frontier because, as it turns out, Clif, Dee, and I really do like many of the same shows.) I don’t have anyone’s schedule but my own to worry about.
However, I will admit that at night, the house creaks, and I listen for Dee and Clif, who of course aren’t here. While I’m enjoying the time on my own, I will be happy to see them on Wednesday and hear about the concert and all the other fun things they did in Boston.
This afternoon I went to the cinema to see Freakier Friday(not a Dee or Clif movie), and it was utterly delightful, a movie that is both fun and heartfelt. At times I laughed, and at other times, I had tears in my eyes. When I mentioned this to the woman next to me, she told me this was her second time seeing the movie. I could understand why. Kudos to Jamie Lee Curtis, Lindsay Lohan, and the rest of the wonderful cast.
Note: Unfortunately, the camera on my phone has been acting up, and until I get things sorted, my posts will be picture free. It’s always something, isn’t it?
One of the delights of summer is the return of the hummingbirds, whose delicate and ethereal appearance belies their fierce territorial nature.
When we sit on the patio, we can hear the buzzing of their frantically beating wings and their high-pitched twitters as they try to drive each other away from the feeders and flowers. Often, one sits guard on the feeder, keeping a sharp eye out for any hummingbird intruders. With other birds, all of whom are larger, the hummingbird is more circumspect. As Falstaff once noted, the better part of valor is discretion.
Silly little things. If I could speak hummingbird, I would tell them that there is plenty of food for all, that they waste more energy chasing each other away than they would if they just settled down to drink the sugar-water we provide.
But, alas, I don’t speak hummingbird, and I doubt they would listen to me even if I could. And, really, who am I to criticize? Do humans, as a group, listen any better to good advice, to pleas to share resources with those who have too little? Some do, yes, but all too many don’t, especially those at the top who have so much. I won’t mention any names. I’m sure readers will know whom I’m referring to.
But back to hummingbirds. Nowadays, I use the camera in my phone to take photos, and it is not easy to catch a picture of hummingbirds as they zip from feeder to flower. But I am persistent, and I have a couple that aren’t too bad, which I’ve used for this post.
In about a month, the hummingbirds will leave Maine for their long trek south, to Mexico and Central America. How can such little birds make such an arduous journey? Somehow they do, and perhaps their fierce nature helps them.
In the meantime, we will enjoy the buzzing of their wings and the twittering sounds hummingbirds make as they zoom in and around the garden, over the house, and into the woods.
Last week we received some bad news about our 2010 Honda Fit—it would cost about $3,000 dollars to get it to a point where it could be inspected. After a short discussion, both Clif and I agreed that the time had come to give up our trusty little Fit. We did this with sadness as the Fit has served us reliably over the years. But $3,000 seemed like too much to put into a fifteen-year-old car.
Our trusty Honda Fit, glimmering after an ice storm
The time had come to buy another car.
Longtime readers will know that we take climate change very seriously. (This dry blazing hot summer is certainly a reminder that the change is upon us. Now.) It has long been our dream to get an electric car, but in the past, they cost more than we could afford.
I am happy to report that this has changed. While electric cars are still in the minority, there are now enough on the market for good, used cars to be available.
We thought we might have to go to Massachusetts to get one, to a dealer in Tewksbury, but as it turned out, a local dealer had a used EV, a Chevy Bolt, available at a price we could afford. With 44,000 miles on it, the car has had one owner and is in beautiful condition.
And guess what color it is?
It seems as though we attract red cars, doesn’t it?
The Bolt’s battery range is about 245 miles, which suits us just fine. Both Clif and I are homebodies, and with our home charger, that range will get us where we want to go in central Maine. Dee’s EV has a range of over 300 miles, and for longer trips we can use her car. And, at least in the part of Maine we live in, public chargers are plentiful. If we needed to, we could stop at one for a recharge.
But I don’t think we’ll need to. A friend of ours has an EV with a similar range, and it gets her to southern Maine and back with no problems. (This means that I can still meet my blogging friend Judy of New England Garden and Thread for our yearly lunch at Stonewall Kitchen in York, Maine.)
We are almost a completely electric household now. We have a propane hot water heater, and the plan is to replace that next summer with a heat-pump water heater, which will complete our electric journey.
The cherry on our sundae is that most of our power comes from solar farms.
On Friday, Shannon, Mike, and Holly came to Maine for a visit. For Father’s Day, Shannon and Mike bought Clif a ticket to the Kennebec River Brewfest in Augusta, Maine. Since beer isn’t my thing, Mike agreed to accompany Clif to the Brewfest, which was held on Saturday, August 2.
Neither Dee nor Shannon like beer, so while Clif and Mike were at the Beerfest, we went to Thai With Us, a restaurant in Augusta, where we had some delicious Thai food. We all agreed it was a restaurant to visit again.
As we were eating, some adults and children were seated at a long table next to us. Since my back was to them, I couldn’t see the adults and children unless I twisted around to look.
But I didn’t need to look when I heard an adorable exchange, a piping voice asking an adult, “Is it all right if I kiss your cheek?”
How we smiled as we listened to that child, and after Dee, Shannon, and I left, we all agreed that the answer to that question would be yes, always yes.
After the Brewfest ended, we all headed home where we sat in the screen house in the backyard. As we talked about movies and the problems of the world, dusk settled over us.
Crickets sang. The solar lights came on. And in the trees at the edge of the woods, we heard curious calls, which we eventually figured out were barred owl fledglings.
Holly the dog, comfortable on her dog bed, ignored the fledglings. As I listened, I marveled at how much life there is in the woods. The trees not only provide shade and absorb carbon dioxide, but they are also provide food and shelter for many animals. This might sound fanciful, but I can’t help but think that trees are the guardians of life as they rise tall and mysterious above us.
With age comes nostalgia, and at sixty-seven, I find I am succumbing more and more to a longing for the good old days of Maine summers, when the weather was seldom hot and humid, when smoke from forest fires in Canada did not spread their haze over our state, and finally, when beachgoers could swim in the ocean without worrying about an encounter with a Great White shark
Time was when we swam at the ocean, all we had to worry about was the cold water. And cold it was. My family developed a technique of going in gradually, until the cold stopped stinging our legs, which in turn became, well, yes, numb. Then we could play in the waves until our teeth started chattering, and we had to take a break. After all, we are Mainers. We eat ice cream in the winter, don’t turn on the heat until October when the temps dip below 30°, and don’t let a little thing like bracing water stop us from swimming in the ocean.
But Great Whites are another matter. Previously, they came only as far north as Massachusetts, on the warm side of Cape Cod. Far, far away from us. Or so we thought. In the halcyon days of the 1990s, we swam without concern about large ocean predators.
But in the past five or so years, the Great Whites have moved north. So far, only one Maine woman has been killed swimming, and that was in 2020. Still, the Great Whites are out there, and the sightings have been increasingly common, especially this year, when shark flags have been flying at popular beaches to warn swimmers of potential danger.
And why are the Great Whites coming as far north as Maine? According to Maine Coast Islands, there are two prime reasons: One, due to preservation efforts, seals have made a comeback along the Maine coast, and Great Whites like to eat seals. Two, our waters are warming, thus drawing the Great Whites northward.
Here is a video of an encounter with sharks that a lobsterman recently had:
For the record, I do not think predators are evil. I know that they have to make their living, which involves eating other creatures. When either coyotes or fishers got two of our cats, I didn’t take it personally. Still, I mourned the loss of those cats, Finnegan and Margot.
Likewise, I don’t want to become a meal for a Great White. Ditto for family and friends or anyone else for that matter. Because of arthritis, my swimming days in the Maine ocean were pretty much over. The Great Whites have sealed the deal as the saying goes.
Still, my love of the ocean remains strong, and it is a great pleasure to be on the shore, looking out at the vast sea. The salt air, the call of gulls, the lapping of waves will never lose their appeal.
When I do go, as I scan the water, I will be keeping an eye out for a fin cutting the water. As much as Great Whites give me the shivers, it would be a thrill to see one.
As long as nobody is in the water.
To complete my nostalgic yearnings, I’ll end with an oldie but goodie from Toad the Wet Sprocket.
Well, folks, we did it—30 movies in nine days at the Maine International Festival (MIFF). Am I tired? You bet I am, but what a festival it was, with so many good movies that choosing my top three was a real challenge. We’ve been going to the film festival pretty much from when it started in 1998, and I really do think this year was the best. Others apparently thought so, too, as attendance was way up. There was plenty of world cinema, my personal favorite, and I traveled to Japan, Africa, France, Italy, England, Ireland, Iran, and Israel. There were documentaries that stunned me and made me cry. (More about two of those later,) There were movies from our own little state of Maine, and the festival was the perfect combination of local and global.
No doubt the excellent Clive Owen was a draw, and we saw all six of his featured movies, with the outstanding Children of Men (2006) being eerily prescient about the brutal treatment of immigrants.
Here is Clive himself talking about Children of Men, and his experience working on the movie with the great director Alfonso Cuarón.
Owen was charming, relaxed, and down-to-earth—in short, a perfect guest. I didn’t speak to him personally. He had quite the fan club, and at a reception for him at Front and Main in Waterville, I caught sight of him in one of the lounges where he was surrounded by an adoring circle of women. (There might have been a few men in the mix, but it seemed to me there were mostly women.) I concluded that he didn’t need one more woman in the mix.
The next day, we returned to Front and Main for chocolate martinis and their delicious mac and cheese. Also, a tasty dish of mushrooms.
Confession time: We ate out more than we usually do. We had pizza several times. Chinese food. A crunch cannoli. A flaky vegan croissant. And popcorn, lots and lots of popcorn. We were, after all, at the movies.
It never ceases to amaze me that we have the fabulous Paul J. Schupf Art Center in Waterville, Maine, population circa 16,000. Maine Film Center is on the second floor, and that’s where many of the movies were shown. The Opera House, right next door, was also a venue.
Even though I’m tired, I’m sorry that MIFF 2025 is over. Not only did we get a chance to see many movies that we wouldn’t see anywhere else, but we also met old friends and made a few new ones.
We’re already looking forward to MIFF 2026.
My Top 3 Movies of MIFF 2025
My Sunshine
This coming-of-age story, set in Japan, is quiet and poignant but never sentimental. When Takuya, a dreamy young boy, sees the lovely Sakura figure skating, he longs to skate with her. A sympathetic coach takes Takuya under his wing, and with a lot of practice, Takuya becomes good enough to skate with Sakura. Naturally, problems ensue, but they are not the problems that an American audience would expect, leading to a surprising ending.
Walk With Me
Walk with Me is a documentary directed by Heidi Levitt, chronicling life with her husband Charlie Hess and his diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer disease. Filmed over four years, Walk with Me records the challenges that Charlie and Heidi face, but also the love, joy, and support they give and receive. This one moved me to tears. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a trailer for Walk with Me.
76 Days Adrift
In 1982, when a whale hit Steven Callahan’s boat and destroyed it, Callahan escaped in an inflatable life raft that had minimal provisions. As the title indicates, Callahan was stranded in that life raft in the Atlantic Ocean for 76 days. This documentary, based on Callahan’s memoir Adrift: 76 Days Lost at Sea, plunges the viewer into Callahan’s world, using some of the most incredible reenactments I have ever seen. We see a torso, legs, arms, and hands but never a face, and this provides a tense immersive experience, even though we know what the outcome is. Interspersed with the reenactments are clips and old photos as well as Callahan himself narrating his experience, providing details of how he survived.
76 Days Adrift is a must-see documentary. Readers, if it comes to a theater near you, go see it. And if doesn’t, perhaps it will be available through a streaming service. Anyway, look for it.
July is a happy time of year for Dee, Clif, and me, dedicated cinephiles who think that going to the movies is one of the best things to do. In July, in Waterville, Maine, comes the MaineInternational Film Festival (MIFF), a ten-day extravaganza where over 100 movies are shown. Especially exciting this year is that Clive Owen is going to be the guest of honor, and six of his movies will be featured. Dee, Clif, and I are keen fans of Owen, and we have signed up to see all six of his featured movies, where he will be available for a Q & A after each film.
We all have full festival passes, which means we can go to as many films as we want. Sadly, we won’t be able to watch all of them. There’s just not enough time in the schedule to see every movie. (100 movies in ten days would be a bit much, even for us.) We do have plans to see 30 movies, which is not too shabby for 10 days of viewing. And, yes, by the end we are tired but happy.
As subtitles don’t bother me at all, I especially like watching foreign films. I love to hear other voices and other languages, to see the world from a different perspective. Around the planet, there are many other cultures, each with their own unique take on the world, and it’s good to be reminded of this. Especially now.
So starting today, I will be on vacation and will come back on July 21 with a short list of favorite movies. In today’s world of streaming services, many of them will be available to viewers all over.
Fifteen years ago, when I was diagnosed with breast cancer, a friend brought me a sliver of jade plant, taken from her own larger one. The tiny jade was in a yogurt container, and as my friend passed it to me, she said, “This is for luck.”
Naturally, this made me extremely superstitious about the plant, whom I unimaginatively named Jade. Over the years, I have tended Jade faithfully and lovingly, watering her when needed and feeding her once a month.
I wish I had taken a picture of baby Jade, but I had no idea how she would grow. And grow and grow.
Now, fifteen years later, this is what Jade looks like.
Jade certainly attracts attention. Delivery people and friends alike marvel at Jade’s size and beauty.
A while back, when one of Jade’s branches broke, it occurred to me that I could propagate more little Jades so that if—God forbid—anything ever happened to big Jade, her spirit would live on in her daughters.
Propagating more little Jades proved to be ridiculously easy. I filled a small glass with water and tucked the tiny jade stems into the water. Within a month or so, hairy roots appeared, and I planted them in small pots with potting soil.
Readers might have noticed a cluster of babies around Jade on the buffet. Here is a closer look at the daughters of Jade, on our front deck right after I planted and watered them.
The other day, I brought a daughter of Jade over to a friend who is dealing with her own health issues. “This is for luck,” I told her, thus keeping the tradition going.
The rest will be for the young woman who delivers our weekly farm share that we get from our own Farmer Kev. Some time ago, I had given her a daughter of Jade—not because she was ill but just because she wanted one—and she recently told me that her daughter of Jade is thriving. She also mentioned that many of her friends would love to have their own daughter of Jade: “As many as you want to give away.”
We’ll see if she wants five little daughters. If not, I know I can find homes for the rest of them.
For some reason, in my mind Jade is a matriarch and her children are daughters. Why this should be I’m not sure. I suppose it must be because even though the name Jade can be used for both genders, I envisioned the original little Jade as feminine, a manifestation of the luck my friend was giving to me. And my vision for Jade’s offspring goes in the same direction.
I also like to think that luck is like love, something that grows and spreads as we bestow good wishes on others. After all, it’s a hard old world, and most of us, for whatever reason, could use the blessing of luck.
Last week on Tuesday, this is what the thermometer outside our dining room window read.
To add insult to injury, the Winthrop Weather Station gave us this additional information.
This is Maine. In June. Back in the day, June was so cool and rainy that sometimes my father had to replant the green beans because they rotted in the soil. Not every year, but enough so that I remember him complaining about it.
Fortunately, during the extreme heat, we had our new heat pumps, and they worked like champs. They were installed at exactly the right time, and we are so very grateful to have them. They kept us cool and comfortable for the two days the extreme heat came to Maine.
Aside from the alarmingly high heat, the sad thing is the denial that I saw on Facebook. When the local meteorologists posted the heat warnings and noted that these were record-breaking temps, all too many people protested. There was “I remember it getting this hot when I was young.” Oh, really, I thought, did you live in Maine? Or, “It’s summer, deal with it.” As though the extreme heat were a trifling matter, and only wimps complained about it when in fact , according to NOAA, extreme heat kills more people than any other weather event.
Who are the people writing such things? Bots? Shills for the fossil fuel companies? Folks who just don’t want to face the truth?
How bad does it have to get before there is a general consensus about climate change and the will to do something about it?
Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.
–James Baldwin, 1962
During the heatwave I ordered Mike Berners-Lee’s A Climate of Truth, a much-needed look at how denying the truth about climate change has not only held us back but has endangered us as well.
Even though I haven’t finished the book, I can highly recommend it. It is clear, well written, and moves right along. The book has also made me think about what I can do in my own life to reduce my carbon footprint. There is plenty of room for improvement even for this family of green beans.
In the United States, June 15 was Father’s Day, but we decided to celebrate it a week later on June 21. Our daughter Shannon, who lives in Boston with her husband Mike and their dog Holly, took some time off from work to come midweek. (Mike, who recently started a new job, couldn’t join us until Friday.)
A mini-vacation, with much eating and some drinking, ensued. (Because of the merriment, I couldn’t keep up with reading blogs and then commenting. My apologies! This week will be better.)
On a cool, misty Thursday morning, Shannon, Clif, Holly, and I went to nearby Hallowell to sit by the river. By gum, the sturgeon were jumping, but unfortunately I wasn’t fast enough to get a picture.
Clif with coffeeHolly waits for a treat
The next day there was a trip to Newcastle, a lovely little town by the Damariscotta river in Midcoast Maine. We got sandwiches at Salt and Pepper, a vegan cafè overlooking the river. Because we brought Holly, we decided to go to what must be one of the prettiest picnic areas in Maine, one that overlooks a salt marsh.
We all enjoyed our sandwiches, but the winner was Clif’s beet pastrami on foccacia. We liked it so much that I’m going to try to replicate it at home.
Then came Mike, on Friday night, and on Saturday, the beer boys were ready for a brew at Cushnocin Augusta. (Shannon, Dee, and I are more cocktail girls.)
This was followed by a pizza palooza. (Don’t worry. We took some home for our Sunday night supper.)
On Saturday evening, stuffed with good food and drink, we sat in the screen house as dusk came to our home by the edge of the woods.
As well as being treated to delicious pizza and beer, Clif got some lovely presents, but as he noted, the best present of all was everybody getting together.
That’s the way of things, isn’t it?
A blog about nature, home, books, movies, television, food, and rural life.
Notes From the Hinterland 