I was lookin’ through old photo albums the other day, when I come across this Halloween gem. I don’t know what Irene and me were supposed to be, but it must have been some cold and crappy out. Check out the winter coats and boots. If you look close, you can see Irene has a knit hat on behind her cat mask. Maybe that’s why she’s holding it up, instead of wearin’ it. (That mask was probably a tight fit with the hat on.) I think I see the hint of a hood behind my mask. And what’s up with Irene’s cape, with the dancing circus dogs on it? My biggest concern when I look …

Last week’s blog and this fall weather has got me thinking about my Grampy Gilbert. As I said last week, he was a registered Maine guide and as you can imagine, he had stories up the ying-yang! Here’s a couple of family favorites: There was the one about the doctors from New York, come up to Maine to go fishing one June. On the phone Grampy says, “I’ll tell you right up front, it’s black fly season up here. Sometime’s the air’s so thick with them p’tit mouche, you can’t see your hand in front of your face. In fact, a swarm of them carried off Mrs. Dugall’s dog last week. No shit! And it …

Fall’s hunting season here in Maine. Bow hunting takes place in October, and come November, they bring out the heavy artillery. So if you’re out walking in the woods, be sure to wear your blaze orange vests, hats and what not. I know, it’s not in my color wheel either, but sometimes you gotta forgo fashion for safety. Why, even our little dog Scamp wears his colors. Got him a blaze orange bandana and vest, and boy, oh boy, does he ever look cunnin.’ Hunting season always makes me think of my Grandfather, Fredrick Gilbert. Grampy was a Registered Maine Guide. Folks from away would come up to Maine to go hunting and fishing, and …

This time of year in Maine, it’s not unusual to see big groups of wild turkeys walking through the neighborhood. They make their rounds every morning, like it’s one of them progressive dinners, going from house to house, chowin’ down under every birdfeeder on the block. Generally, how men feel about squirrels on birdfeeders, that’s how women feel about turkey’s under ‘em. Squirrels are cute and fuzzy, but let’s face it: turkey’s are just plain ugly.Velociraptor, I call ‘em. Even the baby ones are none too cute. One turkey would be more than enough, but you get fifteen or twenty of ‘em together in your yard and boy, that’s a whole lot of ugly. These …

Saturday morning, Charlie and me went out for breakfast down to the Busy Bee. Now that Labor Day has passed, the tourists are thinning out, so us locals can actually get a seat. My sister Irene and her husband Jimbo were planning to meet us there. We arrive to find them sitting at an outdoor table, shooting the breeze with Craig Holden. “Hey there, Craig,” I says. “How you doing?” Gosh, Craig must be in his forties now. He’s Snowdell Holden’s grandson. Snowdell’s the former postmistress of Mahoosuc Mills, and reigning grand poobah of the local chapter of the Red Hatters. But that’s another story. Jimbo goes, “Craig’s trying to unload a rooster.” “Would you …

So, I’m working checkout at the A&P, right? When I hear this conversation out of the corner of my ear: two women, voices lowered, talking fast in a urgent sort way. I mean, who wouldn’t listen in? “He wakes me up every morning at 5:00.” “Every morning?” “Like clockwork. I don’t mind it so much on week days. I have to be up for work, anyways. But, it’s the weekends, too.” “You think he’d let you sleep in at least one morning.” “Nope. He just won’t give it a rest. At first I thought it was kind of  cute, you know? But frankly, it’s wearing me down!” “I don’t blame you. Not every morning.” Well, …

Few weeks back, Charlie’s out mowin’ the lawn. I’m putterin’ around the kitchen, you know, cleaning the stove top, excavatin’ the vegetable bin, when I happen to look out the window and see Charlie doin’ the two-step around the yard. Weird, I thought, but gee, he can move pretty fast for an old duffer. Later, I see him bending down, lookin’ under our big viburnum, the one by the bird house my niece Caitlin give us. When he comes in, I ask, “Charlie, what the heck were you doin’ out there?” “Mowing the lawn. What did it look like I was doin’?” “Gettin’ ready to audition for “So You Think You Can Dance?” “Very funny. …

Okay, it’s Labor Day, and after last week’s whinin’ about the end of summer, I’ve decided to focus on the positive. September is one of the nicest months of the year here in Maine. It’s full of clear, sunny days free of humidity, followed by those crisp nights, just perfect for snoozing. All of a sudden, the tourists have transformed from exasperated parents with their cranky, little sunburned kids, to retired couples, kickin’ back and livin’ the dream. And you can actually get a parkin’ spot on Main Street! Me, I always get that back-to-business shot of energy ingrained no doubt from years of school. Years of September representin’ new outfits, new notebooks and a …

I can’t believe it’s the end of August! No way, no how! I don’t care how hot or muggy it’s been, I do not want summer to end. I do not want to see a mum or apple cider or apples in general, unless they’re in a pie at someone’s cookout. I, for one, have not forgotten what a bear last winter was, and I want to hang on to the sunshine, the smell of Coppertone, fresh-cut grass and the feel of a warm breeze on my skin as long as I possibly can. It seemed like it went by in a blink of an eye, didn’t it? That’s what happens when you’re busy. This …

Boy, I’ll tell ya, things are always changin’ down to the transfer station! So much so, it’s hard to keep it all straight, one week to another. They take #1 and #2 plastic, but #5? One week yes, the next week no. Keep the plastic caps on the bottles? No, now you’re supposed to take ‘em off and put ‘em over there. I secretly wonder if, late at night, they don’t have a good laugh at our expense, as they mix all the recycling together and toss it into the compactor. Pretty cynical, I know, but the thought has crossed my mind. Oh, it’s just too much rigmarole for me. But Charlie, thank God, he …