Warm, Drenched Laughter




Growing up in Oregon, one gets used to the rain. I was nominally soggy for the first eighteen years of my life. I (mostly) never minded.

In a Northern rainforest, I was raised by a family of foresters, arborists and naturalists to love the rain. To love its sounds, its constancy, its insistence on supplying what our environment needs – and maybe just a little bit more.

As long as the gray days/weeks/months could be, the temperate Willamette Valley usually encouraged me to seek the outdoors, rather than stay confined. I remember running up and down my dead end street with the neighborhood kids, soaked but uncaring.

Some of my greatest summer memories from Girl Scout camp center on creative uses of mud.

When I moved to northern California for school, I honestly had no idea what to do with myself. I was there from September until December with NO RAIN. It almost felt like blasphemy.

Then one warm night, we heard it. Shrieking with laughter, myself and the other Northwest kids practically drug my roommate (a desert dweller from Las Vegas) out into the downpour.

We ran, we danced, we laughed, we reveled in the rain.


The Art of the Everyday, January 19 – Free association: Write down the first words that comes to mind when we say . . . home. . . soil. . . rain. Use those words in the title of your post.


Lake Walking

The lake is frozen. Super frozen.

It holds up cars, snowmobiles, Norway Lake’s annual SnowFest, ice fishing groups, even the occasional deer and moose.

But it freaks me out. Like all the way out.

I can’t handle it. I tiptoe like I’m on hot coals just waiting for the proverbial crick-crick-CRACK and the ensuing tumultuous sprint away from the cavernous gap.

Obviously this hasn’t happened to me, but every time I’ve gone out, I have a little extra skip in my step.

Until last weekend.

Our great friends/old roommates/general troublemakers came up for a birthday weekend. We tippled the old Allen’s coffee brandy, had a great dinner then thought – hey – it’s a full moon! What better place to see it than the middle of the lake?

So I strapped on my spikes and went along.

Emboldened by some liquid courage and a truly phenomenal sky, I stepped out. Then ran out. Finally getting all the way to a small island in the center.

As we watched the dogs run around, the moon make its arc across the sky, we swapped tall tales and ribbed each other as one by one we all fell traversing the ice pack.

It was cold, it was beautiful, and it was so worth it.

However, you’re still more likely to find me on shore.


Last year’s SnowFest


The Art of the Everyday, January 18 – Offbeat: Another tried and true theme from 2013, wherein I go outside. I mean I go outside everyday. But…you get it.

One Day In Maine

It’s a bit of a cheat, but in the serendipity that can happen in creation sometimes, I did an Instagram series (I know, I know) yesterday called #onedayinmaine that is a perfect fit with my prompt for Sunday.

And yes, I’m a day-ish late in the upload, but you know what? That just makes today a two-fer.

The Art of the Everyday: January 12, Take two – Run outside. Take a picture of the first thing you see. Run inside. Take a picture of the second thing you see. Write about the connection between these two random objects, people, or scenes.


We start at Brunch. Ah, the sweet smell of freedom fries.


Snowshoe in Loon Echo Land Trust, Bridgton 



Summit, overlooking Sebago Lake


On the way down


Whose grocery store doesn’t have good advice and stuffed large cats?

And there you have it, one day in Maine.