Mid-Coast Maine during the Pandemic
A silent bird glides out of the fog that lays a gray, moist blanket over the land and obscures the cove as I write this in a house full of sleeping people.
Unseen gulls cry, catbirds mew, and the coffee percolates as I process my thoughts from the past 12 days in Maine.
The first day I arrived on the St George peninsula late in the afternoon, I noticed a familiar landmark was missing, Harjula’s summer ice-cream van anchored on the hill beside the old barn. Other vacant buildings of favorite places signify the result of aging or the pandemic.
I had planned to revisit one of my motifs of a lobster pound, and made idea sketches from memory of it in Florida. It shocked me when I rounded a bend to see the entire complex of structures gone.
Above is my painting of it from 2013. Below is a photo from the day I arrived.
Favorite eateries have disappeared, and home prices have risen like the rest of the country. New warning signs are posted and gates are closed. So many hungry tourists flock to Mcloons Lobster shack on Spruce Head Island that there is no longer any room to set up and paint.
The world has discovered Mid-Coast Maine.
But what remains this summer in this land I have grown to love are the wild, raw coast, Wyeth’s Eight Bells and Helga’s blue eyes.