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New England Memories
At Yankee, we know that New England speaks to people in different ways. Yet seemingly everyone who's spent time in our region-- a day or a lifetime -- has a lasting memory of it. We've created this blog for lovers of New England to share memories.
As the rest of the world starts to look an awful lot alike, New England stubbornly retains a unique character that has made it a welcoming home for hundreds of years.
Do you have a memory to submit for consideration? Submissions must be about New England and be about 1,000 words. Our editors will select one each month to highlight on the Web. Start here: memories@yankeepub.com .
Endless River Flow
Nature's Sweet Gift
May 26, 2009 at 10:15 AM | 1 Comment | Post a Comment
Overflowing river banks,
Rolling down with ease,
Never work to roll down stream,
Are carried all the way. When
Dams are built, the rivers cannot bleed.
That unnatural bandage stops the flow,
Halting where the rivers go,
Not allowing them to play. But force
Of river breaks through weaker dam,
And gently carries on. Flow, river, flow!
Not knowing even where to go, but
Laughing all the way. It sings its
Purpose, to glide on down the stream,
Refreshing children's toes, without
Knowing why, like the fragrance of
A garden rose. Never shall this river
Cease to heal our souls, whose purpose,
Too, is to nourish other souls. Tragic
Loss of souls of all, whenever they forget
The blessing of a flowing life,
And swim against the flow. The river
Teaches us to dance, merrily to glide,
But somehow some are still afraid
To make surrender their lucky bride.
So as the rivers flow, our souls would
Do well to see that their fluid
Ride down that river bank leads to
The greater sea. And when the rivers
Of the world cease to roll along,
Contented souls that came to know
That life's a flowing song, will never
Cease their flowing, but gently carry on,
In a higher kind of knowing, when the world
Shall die away, our souls will stroll
Forevermore, with each new dawn of day.
Mermaids
A treasured spot on the Bristol peninsula offers safe harbor
March 23, 2009 at 3:19 PM | 2 Comments | Post a Comment
Ten years ago during our annual summer vacation in Round Pond, Maine, our daughters, 12 and 14, ran down to the little harbor at low tide to roll around in the mud. On a lobster pier above them, diners observed with delight, applauding the reckless abandon of these two teenagers whose laughter echoed across the water.
Mount Hunger
Sometimes People Need to Get Away
March 9, 2009 at 11:39 AM | Post a Comment
I only met her once. I remember thinking she looked like a witch. She looked a little bit like the plastic skeleton from my fifth grade classroom. She had long, gray, stringy hair that hung down in clumps and her teeth seemed gray too. Her clothes were torn and filthy. She called herself Emma.
Poetry of Claire Hersom
"Anadama Bread" and "Supper at the Farm"
February 3, 2009 at 10:30 AM | 1 Comment | Post a Comment
Anadama Bread
Winter was the worst.
The farm windows iced inside, wind howled
down off the upper field; through the gauze
curtains it kissed our foreheads, noses buried
in featherbed crazy-quilts. Wooden spindle
framed our heads. It was too cold for ceiling mice.
Rising Tide on Plum Island
When Every Second Counts
January 19, 2009 at 11:01 AM | Post a Comment
Plum Island was deserted except for a slightly offbeat mother, her twelve-year-old daughter and four young sons, including five-year-old twins. I was that mother. If there were another whose children were running wild and free on the island that Easter Sunday, she was nowhere in sight.
