August 3, 2026

 

  

 

An egg heady thing we do when on Carrie Rose is to stop at the libraries of the towns we visit. Many are quite nice in a traditional sense, but also in the effort each community has put into maintaining and restoring them.

 

The first thing we ask is if there are used books for sale. Vacationy areas tend to have interesting collections. In Maine, many of the “away” people are well off and well educated. And I guess, to be perfectly honest, so are we. They have travelled widely, have multiple interests, and have probably led interesting lives. This translates into a wealth of books on diverse topics.

 

At the moment the three books that sit next to my pilothouse bench illustrate this point: Granta, a quarterly magazine of new writing, with this copies theme of Music; Letters to a Young Novelist by the Peruvian novelist Mario Vargas Llosa; and High Clouds Soaring Storms Driving Low, the letters of the Maine author Ruth Moore.

 

Since I could not decide which to read first, I have been reading a bit of each, a bit of the time. The view out the pilothouse windows of Pulpit Rock and the schooners sailing out on Penobscot Bay keeps pulling my eyes and concentration from the printed page. It may be a long time before I finish any of them.

 

Earlier I skimmed through an odd book about the healing powers of Mount Dessert Island and longingly looked at photos of luscious French desserts in Gasto Lenotre’s Desserts and Pastries.

 

Last year was all about Churchill and Stalin and WWII. The books were enlightening but slow going and in the end depressing. This year I have unknowingly chosen lighter topics with one caveat: Frankenstein on my new Kindle.

 

Before leaving Chicago Amazon kindly informed me that my two seldom used Kindles were no longer functional. To compensate for their loss, I was offered twenty dollars off a new one, so I bought the least expensive model. Though I hate to admit it, it is a delight to use.

 

For some reason the first book I choose to read - in bed – was Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. It as a peculiar book written in a similar fashion to Grahm Stoker’s Dracula, which, by-the-way, I highly recommend. The problem may be that as I read it, I cannot get Mel Brook’s movie out of my head. Makes for some interesting thoughts upon closing my eyes to sleep.

 

As we make our way Downeast, I am excited to see what new treasures await us at the local libraries. A decidedly egg heady thing to do . . .

 

Belfast, Maine