Southern Beauties - with a Maine Interlude

Imagine being a honeybee crawling on a fragrant gardenia. 

Gardenia fireworks - the shrub exploded into bloom almost overnight. 

Here we have a dramatic transition of subject, from the closeup views of a quarter-acre suburban garden to ....

the wild beauty of a rural Maine island in Casco Bay. 

 I slightly expanded the definition of backyard photos while in Maine. The bay with its changes in tides and winds and weather and sun draws me to it inexorably. It teaches me things 

that I cannot articulate. 

I try with the camera to evoke the mysterious beauty. I fail, of course, but I do not care. Life is happening according to rhythms that we cannot fathom or capture. Somehow that is a relief, a prayer.

But I am drawn to share the beautiful, and here's a bit of what I saw. 

A view from the walk to the stairs leading down to the beach.
This is one of the oldest cottages on the East End of the island.

The evening sun lights up the bay, seen from the porch of our cottage. 

High tide breaks on the ledge at the point.
How many hours (days) have I spent on this point I cannot say.  

Sunset at the wharf as seen through a lobster trap.
Lobstermen were just beginning to put in their traps for the summer. 

Twilight and eider ducks with their babies on the bay near the point. 

The beach at low tide. The rockweed has a beauty of its own,
and is home to all sorts of sea life. 

Eastern phoebes nested on the rafter of the front porch.
This phoebe alit in a lilac bush not long after fledging. 

In the miracle of modern airplane travel, I was transported reluctantly back to North Carolina. The lilies (not eaten by deer) and beginning to peak were a consolation. 

This post is the fourth in a series of "10 Days" posts featuring daily photographs from my backyard.

Maine Island: Variations on a Scene

The island in Casco Bay where my husband's family cottage sits has many moods. I have been coming here for 14 years as summer slides into fall. The slanting light becomes more beautiful each day as the equinox approaches.

Each familiar scene never looks the same twice. Always something is different - the light, the wind, the clouds, the vantage point, the tides that rise and ebb 10 feet every 13 hours. Here are a few favorite photos from the last three years of the East End point. This is the view we see when walking a couple of hundred feet to the stairs that lead to the beach. 

After a rainstorm, the late afternoon sun strikes the white birches that line the shore.

Wind from the northwest brings low dramatic clouds and rockweed is exposed as the tide goes out. 

This view of the East End was taken from halfway down the beach.

A different kind of calm from the photo above. The scene is ethereal at dawn. 

Inviting in the late afternoon.

Violent, yet exhilarating, during tropical storm Irene.

Cold and lonely when the sun goes behind a cloud.

Tonight we'll sit on the point that looks toward the East End and watch the stars. It was here that God began to find me. 

Eating Local on the Island

We take many things for granted. Like access to a grocery store. But how do you get fresh food when you spend two weeks on an island in Maine that is accessible only by boat?

The island market is charming in its way. Where else does the owner stand behind the counter all day, chatting pleasantly to customers? Where else can you run a tab for snacks and sodas, kept using a calculator and pencil? But the store doesn't pretend to be anything but a convenience store.

Fortunately, a few farmers have responded with creative solutions. This summer, a boat from Mitchell Ledge Farm in Freeport has been coming to the island on Saturday mornings. I smile every time I see the name of the operation - "Lettuce by Land, Carrots by Sea."

They sell an array of fresh produce, eggs, meat and bakery goods. 

Much as I was charmed by the farm boat, I hope it doesn't put the island's farm stand out of business. The farm stand runs on an honor system, with a lock box for money. 

Island friends are generous with food from their gardens and freezers. I find this particularly remarkable because we see them briefly and only once a year. A neighbor gave us fresh carrots. A childhood friend of my husband's gave us a pound of frozen haddock, caught in a deep-sea fishing trip. Another friend gave us a giant zucchini, two onions, garlic, basil and potatoes. We also collected windfall apples from around his Macintosh tree, which we quickly transformed into apple crisp.

Of course, we had to eat lobsters. The waters around the island are bright with lobster buoys marking the location of traps. Our friend down the road is retired teacher turned lobsterman. He takes orders for live lobsters two to three days ahead of time, available for pickup in a drywall bucket. 

Life is sweet eating local.

Wordless Wednesday: Crows

Tropical Storm Irene

How does one photograph the wind? I made several attempts yesterday, even braving a mile walk through a spruce woods to the most exposed point on the island in an effort to obtain a photographic record of my first tropical storm in Maine. (I also had tired of sitting inside with no electricity, holding my book to the window where shadows from the wind-whipped maple flickered on the page.) I could barely stand in the wind blowing the sea into the ledges even at low tide. That's why the horizon is tilted.

Sea spray misted the camera lens and my hair and face. I laughed, drunk on the wildness of the day. Later, my husband’s friend the lobsterman, hearing of my adventure, said, “That was stupid.” Was it? I’d rather inhale a storm than sit inside meditating on our dependence on electricity.

It was hard to hold the lightweight point-and-shoot steady.  It was also hard to pose steady.

How does one photograph the wind? Messenger from another world, visible only by its effects. Grasses bend in the winds coming across open water.

Most seagulls evacuated to the golf course.

The wind pushed though the trees all day, flipping the leaves inside out. The oak below has stood with its brothers and sisters exposed to the east wind on a bank above the bay for well over a hundred years. How many storms has it withstood?

At the cottage, the only damage was to these black-eyed susans, stems bent by the wind, but petals intact and merrily gold. Conveniently, the flowers lean to face the front porch where I sit.

We read last night after dinner by the light of three taper candles. I was almost disappointed when the power came back on. The rain ceased. The wind stopped blowing. We awoke to clear sky, sun and views of islands rising from calm blue water. New Englanders say, “If you don’t like the weather, wait a minute.”

Below, are photos taking yesterday and today near high tide at the East End Point. 

The goldenrod and sumacs are browned, presumably from salt spray.

By local standards, the storm was a non-event. Islanders say many winter nor'easters bring winds and waves wilder than we saw yesterday. It takes a lot to impress a Mainer. 

Calm Before the Hurricane

We escaped from the hot South to a Maine island that is now caught up in the excitement of an anticipated hurricane. I had one criterion for this to be a successful vacation - any weather is acceptable except temperatures above 90 degrees. Yesterday was sunny and calm, with barely a ripple on Casco Bay.

We explored favorite spots on the island. At Deer Point we stood on the ledges as the tide came in, looking southeast into the Gulf of Maine.

At the boatyard, men were busy hauling boats out of the water before the hurricane hits.

The island is accessible only by boat. The main work on the island is lobster fishing. 

We walked through the woods and along a rocky beach to a friend's house for dinner.

They served lobsters and sweet corn.

White birches are silhouetted in the fading light.

Goldenrod blooms along the shore, one of the early signs of fall.

We may lose power for a few days if the hurricane predictions aren't overblown. I have to admit that I'm more excited than scared of the storm, and look forward to some opportunities for photography.

Heat

I woke this morning sleepily conscious of something different. A cool breeze was blowing through the window. For days I have been planning to write about heat. Relentless heat. Sticky heat. Air so thick it is almost a physical barrier, making one move slowly. For a month I have spent almost all my time indoors, deprived of nature. The heat makes me dream of Maine, where we go tomorrow. Cool sea breezes, salt air, the scent of balsam fir on a shaded woodland path. Piles of blankets. Sweatshirts! Skies that are clear blue, not white with heat and ozone.

My poor garden lies abandoned, a sea of wilting green. Here's how it looks this August.

I used to think the garden's appearance in August reflected badly on me as a gardener. But I notice most gardens around town look the same. Too many days of 90-degree plus heat and summer dryness for plants to do much more than survive.

Here's the same garden in May.

I grew up in Michigan. Each year by mid-February we became restless after months of snow and cloudy skies and cold. During the school's mid-winter break, everyone took off for Florida, desperate for warmth and sunshine.  In the South, I have the opposite experience. Each August I become crazed with the desire to go North, tired of hiding from the noonday sun and the mosquitoes that make the cooler morning and evening hours intolerable.

To Maine!

Help Me Decide: Show the Motion Contest

I never set out to photograph motion, but because the world is full of motion, it sneaks into my photos. Cathy and Steve suggested I enter one of the photographs of the robin in the birdbath photos in Gardening Gone Wild's competition this month, which is on motion.

Once I started looking at old photographs, I got a little carried away. These are some of my favorite photographs from Chebeague Island, Maine. To me, they convey the motion of wind and tides and waves and birds. I am not sure that they convey motion to others who weren't there to feel the chill of the northeasterly wind as it raced over the waters, or the power of the tide flowing in. So I'd love to hear your feedback.

Here is a photo that is similar to the one at the header of my blog. I like how the water swirls around the fern that magically grows on a rock in the rushing creek. The fern appears to be in motion, too. 

Next, some photos of butterflies in motion. I think the top one of the zebra swallowtail is the best.

This photo may be more about the water than the butterfly.

Birds are almost always in motion. Because my camera has a limited range of shutter speeds, I end up with lots of blurred photographs. But sometimes I like the effects. You can see the drops raining down on the towhee in the photo below.

This photo never fails to make me smile, though I'm not sure if it can stand alone.

I like how the robin's wings are blurred as it beats the water.

This photo amuses me, too, and I can see the robin in it looking at me while he bathes. But is it too much of a blur? The idea of a contest makes me second-guess my own photos. I'm an amateur with a basic camera and little technical knowledge, though I do bring love of nature and patience to photography.

This photo captures the typical turning of the bluebird as it flies from the box. 

I know from reading others' posts that I am now supposed to reveal my decision. But I don't have one yet. So please help. I'd appreciate your comments and votes for your favorite photo that shows the motion. 

Update: After reviewing Gardening Gone Wild's contest description and reading the comments, I have decided to enter the photograph of the robin beating the water with its wings. I agreed with commenters that the beach scene with the gulls is probably the best photo, but I am not sure it shows enough motion to fit the contest requirements. Thanks to all of you who took the time to offer feedback!