As I mentioned a few days ago, I'm on a tear to post about the last year here. It has piled up to topplin'! 

And I wrote this post about 8 months ago and never posted, so going to get to it now.

April 2024: Right now, Maine smells like nearly-black soil, a dark salty whiff that emerges along the roadsides when the soil starts to soften each spring, along with the funk of skunk cabbages pushing through the marshy culverts. I'm holding my breath for the lilacs, which will, will, will come. That is not where we are this week, having gotten yet another dense snow, sponged with sleet.

But two weeks ago did hold something actually magical, and truly shocking in Maine because out of all the days stacked with rain this spring: we had one absolutely cloudless, brilliant blue day the day of the total eclipse, and forecasters said weather in Maine was the best in the country.

I have never been an eclipse-tracker, and so assumed we'd step onto our back deck to watch the partial view, but we noticed a talk at the library given by a gentleman we'd met at a July 4th party last year, now a retired geologist, and so we sat in a jammed room to learn. What we took away was that a total eclipse was 'night and day' different from a partial and it was worth a drive.

We woke early Monday and laughed on the completely empty roads lined with pines, after the doomsy warnings about traffic. After a few hours, we stopped in the small town of Monson, which is a miniature town with only a few stores. But one of them was an antique store.

Given my attraction to shaker-like simplicity, as well as my distaste for old or smelly things, it has shocked even my closest family that I stop along the roadside when I see an open sign at an antique store. Some Saturday mornings when Walker is out running or skiing, I drive a few miles to see what I can find. And our house has been furnished with antique sloops, miniature paintings, milk bottles from local farms, and I've even become friends with people I've bought armoires from. So in Monson, I added to my collection of miniature paintings that have yet to be hung on the wall.

We traveled up the road to our destination, to park and watch at the Blair Hill Inn, which we'd managed to get into the parking after someone else cancelled the day before (such luck). We unpacked on the hill, and snacked on cheese cubes while meeting folks we'll likely never meet again. (Photo taken by new friend, Kerri!)

It felt completely luxurious to sit in adirondack chairs, chatting about Nabisco ovens (one man worked as an oven engineer!), high school classes with students, and the Maine Island Trail Association--interests we learned of as we waited. Just talking with strangers, who became quick friends, about something we all had in common: seeing a rare, rare moment together, felt special.

After an hour of partial eclipse, looking into each others' cameras and telescopes, the temperature dove down as the skies darkened, and I got a chill after sweating in the sun moments before. My heart sped up and I felt a little . . . nervous. And then the moments of totality, where the sunset was 360° around us, 

the high schoolers screaming with awe, and everyone clapping and gasping, the world silent and windless for 3 minutes, before a ray poked back through. And then the slow return of warmth, of relaxing in the sun, chatting, closing up camera bags. 

We stayed for dinner  . . . 

and yes, sat behind tail lights on the way home for hours. 

(Good photos by Walker; blurry ones by my iPhone for journalistic purposes ;)).