New England spring is not extravagant. Miss something today, and it'll be a year before you see it again. Don't waste time; Spring is fast.
During the summer, give me a lobster roll from any of the local places serving them up. There's an incredible Haddock stew at Gilbert's on Commercial Street in Portland. I've probably never met a finnan haddie I hadn't liked, and the sweet Gulf of Maine shrimp are far better than the southern cousins. In short, despite a medically determined avoidance of bivalves, I am a big fan of coastal cuisine.
We so often admire the complex and then seek out and appreciate the simple
I have no trouble differentiating fact from delusion. But one gentleman I worked with did. Working with him, I came to realize that we may not always share a standardized view of reality.
Some people can't deal with complexity.
I always think it best to start with the disclaimers. I am not now nor ever was associated with any intelligence agency. Like most of my ilk, Folkie, I believe that intelligence and government agency represents a truly tactless oxymoron.
The story, said to me at about age five, was that an ancestor had hung for piracy. Kids of five don't forget these things when they get raised on whole rafts of sea stories and pirate movies.
All was well; it was spring in New England. Patience, abetted by some mumbling and stumbling, helped you get through.
Most of us have events that echo through the corridors of our lives. Thirty, forty, fifty years later, it remains like a rhythm track beating at an intersection from a car seven cars ahead. You can't make out the song, but you hear the beat. I have that sort of track inside me, and it emerged briefly to thump into action this morning as I emerged from the house into the downpour to go to the store, out of quarantine.
Well, here it is. It took about an hour of digging around to locate. It's a list. A setlist. It contains a listing of the songs that I regularly performed when I composed the list. It's very late, probably around 1977.