Tarmac ribbons criss-crossing the landscape, dusty back roads twisting between the cool shadows of ancient pines, and less traveled pathways connecting present to past, all I wander, seeking, seeing, with my keyboard and camera capturing scenes and stories to share with you.

Now in its sixth year, this venue has become an important part of my life, a place where I can express my thoughts and feelings about the things I see and do, hoping the process brings me a bit closer to friends and family who enjoy sharing my sometimes chaotic and often nonlinear observations and ideas. A journal, I suppose, but one with which I find pleasure in thinking others are alongside me on my journey.

Comments, thoughts, or just a friendly chat, use the response box below or email me at patrickgroleau@gmail.com.

November 6, 2014

WINTER'S GOODBYE TO AUTUMN

... memory fresh with late afternoon pond swims and strolling softly the night in a balmy september breeze, this is the time of year that on an dreary early winter day it becomes seductively easy to sit inside, huddled near a radiator reminiscing of summer past and dreaming of another yet to be ... still, there are those who simply survive this region's winter while others strive to live fully the new england year ... perhaps a reason, for sure sometimes an excuse, but there are times photography serves no other purpose than to get me out of the apartment ... today john and i went for a little wanderabout ... i steered the car, he navigated, i've no idea where we were other than a vague impression that we somehow circled around the quimby farm in albion ... truth is, where we were, or, for that matter, are, is of the least important of things ...

... one of the thousands of maine's little roadside waterfalls ... no signs pointing the way, nor any hotels for the tourists ... still, in it's scale, as magnificent as the more famous cataract in buffalo, new york ... (and, for sure, much, much easier to find a parking spot) ...

... a tree, freshly fallen ... for a second or two i cursed at a scene ruined ... then i reminded myself that that everything in front of me—rocks, water, soggy leaves, bubbling patch of river froth, even the tree stretched across the brook—each and all were equally a part of the environment ... for me to censor any of it brought the risk of artistic arrogance, and that's something i at least try to avoid ...

 ... protected from the wind, there's a good chance these leaves will remain until the new growth in the spring pushes them aside ... then, and only then, when the days grow longer and the cold gives up to warmth, will they pass back to the earth, having served me well when my own memory faltered ...

... i approached this woodpile, interested in its form ...

... but when i got close i discovered it to be home to some sort of fungi ...

... i asked john if we thought we could eat them ... "nah, i'm not about to take a bite of any mushroom unless some really, really old person tells me they've been eating it all their life" ... good advice, but—well, if i did eat such things this would be one i think i'd like ... 

... john, searching for eagles nesting along a tiny tributary of the sebasticook ...

... if you've gotten this far in this journal entry, take my hint:  go out, make a little walkabout ... celebrate that you've feet and eyes and mind with which to appreciate all that is ...