THE NIP IN THE AIR

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Just for the record, it was 18 degrees yesterday morning here in the Wells woods. When I drove to Portland for an appointment (first activating my heated steering wheel, oh yeah!), I noticed that the thoughtful owners of Raptor Falls Mini Golf on Route 1 had blanketed their dinosaurs for the winter. 

There’s a nip in the air along the southern coast of Maine, confirming poet Thomas Hood’s words:  “No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, no fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds — NOVEMBER!”  

Not only has Big Daddy’s Ice Cream shut its walk-up window, so has Kennebunkport’s world-famous Clam Shack. During the balmy months, folks stand in a line nearly a block long to order prize-winning fried clams. Closed.

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The Farmer’s Daughter supplies my larder throughout the summer with Silver Queen corn and heirloom tomatoes. Closed.


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There are few boats in the Kennebunk River except lobster boats, the workhorses of Maine. 

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Woodpiles are stacked high for the numbing days ahead —even when the snowbird owners of this tempting pile are luxuriating on the west coast of Florida. 


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Beach houses are shuttered. The rosa rugosa has gone south.

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But you can’t keep a Mainer down. Even though the worldwide pandemic has returned with a vengeance and rising numbers here in Vacationland, and despite the angst and uncertainty of our national election that’s straining friendships and households, resilient locals Keep Calm and Carry On.

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Check out these intrepid ladies enjoying an al fresco book club meeting at Kennebunk’s Mornings in Paris on a blustery cold afternoon. Note their masks. Check out their down coats and jackets. Well done, ladies. COVID be damned.

We all know what’s ahead. The check-out lady at the IGA reminded me of that recently when I mentioned that it was freezing outside. “Yeah, but you know what’s coming,” she said.

I sure do.  And I know this too:

“November comes and November goes,

With the last red berries and the first white snows.

With night coming early and dawn coming late,

And ice in the bucket and frost by the gate.

The fires burn and the kettles sing,

And earth sinks to rest until next Spring.”

Elizabeth Coatsworth


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