Inspiration

When I was 17, my dad took the family to the coast of Maine. We stayed at the family home of Bob Buck. It was built in the early nineteenth century and was steps away from the beach. We spent an entire week without AC and without TV. I spent my days with my brothers and sisters walking the coastline, frolicking in the water and wondering about the lives of the people in the nearby mansion up the hill. I read classic gothic novels and Bob introduced me to Sarah Orne Jewett. He gifted me with a copy of Country of the Pointed Firs. Jewett spent time in his family's cottage working on the piece.

I learned some important lessons that summer: I never wanted to have to rely on a septic system, lobster tastes better in Maine than in New Hampshire, and I found my voice as a writer. Even now when I need to escape or seek inspiration, I take myself back to that magical place. I recall the isolation, the wet black rocks, the brush of the long grasses as we cut a path to the beach. I recall the ebb and flow of high and low tide coming in and going out. I see the small rocks and crustaceans beneath the clear grey water.

We never returned to Bob's house as a family. But I return there in my mind whenever possible. Rest in Peace Uncle Bob. And thank you.

DISCONTENT. (St. Nicholas text)

Down in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one, who tried to hide herself,
And drooped, that pleasant weather.

A robin who had soared too high,
And felt a little lazy,
Was resting near a buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy.

For daisies grow so trig and tall;
She always had a passion
For wearing frills about her neck
In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be
The same old tiresome color,
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.

"Dear robin," said this sad young flower,
"Perhaps you'd not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me,
Some day, when you are flying?"

"You silly thing!" the robin said;
"I think you must be crazy!
I'd rather be my honest self
Than any made-up daisy.

"You're nicer in your own bright gown,
The little children love you;
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.

"Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We'd better keep our places;
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
With one too many daisies.

"Look bravely up into the sky,
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing."