The Wesley after-school program had Dana Porter come in and share Color Street with the girls. All the girls did their fingernails with nail polish strips with beautiful colors, glitter and nail  art designs. Diane Lord donated nail polish strips for them all. For more information about Color Street, contact Diane Lord (stylist) at 207-214-7782.

What a great week I had while visiting my grandchildren in Boston. I arrived on Saturday afternoon for a week of fun with them.

Sunday was a damp day with some showers off and on but we did get to go to Ronan Park and run off some excess energy after having some Nana Ronie crafts at home.

 Monday was a downpour so we basically had to entertain ourselves all day with lots of coloring with the special rainbow pencils that I brought for them to color with.

Construction of the new Whitneyville Public Library and Whatnot Craft Shop began Tuesday, April 10, as the walls started to take shape.  Ronald Gandy, local contractor and crew, began the work of constructing the new 4,000 sq. ft. one floor handicapped accessible building which will become the new home of the Whatnot Craft Shop and the Whitneyville Public Library.

Are you about to attack your flower gardens?  Think about starting here! Alexander Marshal, a merchant, is one of the most outstanding horticulturalist, entomologist and painter that world ever had. Surely for history he is one of its most secretive persons, for there is so little we know about him – just three letters he wrote is all!

It’s a lousy game nothing happens for hours

Then it’s over,

Before you even know it.

Who cares who’s on first

Tinker to Evers to Chance the home team sucks—

S’cuse my dugout language.

Plus, you got your umpires calling a strike a ball and vice versa

Miracle workers, Huh.

With two outs, men on base

GM yanks his pitcher,

Yep, home run follows.

What a relief it is!

Well, that’s it for me

Don’t much care anymore.

Heading Fridge-wards

Cold ‘Gansett, anyone?

—Bunny L. Richards

Seventeen poets from nine towns along the coast of Washington County have just produced an anthology of their work, published by the Primavera Press. Who would have guessed there would be so many poets in such a rural area?

 They are known collectively as the Porter Poets. They meet once a month, trooping into Porter Memorial Library and taking seats at old tables near the library’s fireplace to criticize and encourage each other’s work.

Their book is entitled From a Far Corner, an Anthology of Poetry from the Easternmost Reaches of Maine 

So many huddled together, attempting to stay warm as they nudge themselves with noses up trying to get to the surface for a better view. A view that is unknown at this very moment and continually drifts with time. The light that enters from above gets knocked around, never quite making it past the surface, and smiles only one color, that being blue, which gets lost as it sits on a field of blue, constantly moving under a blanket of blue, as white wisps of breath give comfort and solace, give life as they nudge and pry themselves up for a better view; to make the world a better place. 

A song to Spring, you lost wanderer.

 In March the wild-rose twigs blazed scarlet above the snow,

And new gold curls dressed the willow tree’s tips, dancing in frigid air.

Warblers and geese returned,

And at night under crisp stars, a squishy chorus of tiny frogs rose from the thawing bog. 

All proclaimed: Winter’s back is broken!

 And we took heart, believed. And waited. 

 Still.

I fight for the kitchen, so it doesn’t grow cold

I’ve been chipping away on a rocket stove, there it goes

It is the heart, oh the spice of life

If the kitchen goes, this old house will die

But not on my watch, not here today

I’m on 2018 missions, so get out of this rustics way

Who would have guessed, I could change my life

With a fork and a spoon and a good old pocket knife

It is a matter of fact and I hope to see

When dealing with quintessence, your dealing with simplicity

Rigged lines pull taunt in a perfunctory exclamation of breath

One received, never to perish

Wind perhaps, or my own

Maybe both

The precipice rising from flat seas overwhelms in steeped desire

Tears puddle in place

Waves embrace

Companionship sought

Muscles pull apart at seams unknown, an awkward pursuit

Wood splinters in the palm

Hands, caked in salt 

Almost, Almost

Here I am, drifting again, as tall pointed firs peek

Driftwood as my table,

The sea my nemesis, my lover