Something inside me is craving an old sea captain’s house in
Maine built sometime around 1886. I am not sure what that means… what that will
tell you about me. I grew up in a sea-side town just outside of Portland, Maine
in a house with three floors and three brothers. It was an old, gray Victorian
a block from the ocean, built in the early 1900’s with secret passageways and
turrets. It was pretty cool house as
houses go. That might have something to do with this longing. I wish I could have bought it 10 years ago
when my parents decided to sell it (after 30 years) and move to a town on the
other side of Portland. The sound of the fog horn, the smell of the sea, the expanse of the ocean before me, lobster boats in the bay.
