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Friday, April 19, 2019
Click on the headline above to access the archive for Eva Murray's "from Offshore" column.
  • Recall, just a few days ago as you read this, our delightful little spring snowstorm. As I write, it is Monday morning, looks like full-on January outside, and they’re saying we are to have another round of this Tuesday night. I had supposed ...
  • My friend who is a scientist, and who knows a great deal about many things most of us have never even heard of, didn’t know how to reply when her kids asked what happens to the bales of recyclables piled up at their local municipal ...
  • From time to time it seems appropriate to use my little soapbox to cheer for the good guys. The general pattern of impromptu favors and helping hands is that wider attention and media recognition are neither sought nor particularly desired....
  • The workday, on Friday last, required at least three sledge hammers. Our February ferry was scheduled for the 22nd, and if you are not yet accustomed to such an expression as “the February ferry,” welcome to Matinicus. That morning the ...
  • It is possible that, on whatever day you read this, the air is calm. Let us count our blessings. As I write, it is Saturday morning, the 9th of February. The cat, according to Paul, “doesn’t like going outside when her ears get blown flat.” ...
  • Several of my friends and a healthy majority of other newspaper columnists are enamored, in this chilly season of self-improvement and cabin fever, with the famous organizing specialist Marie Kondo and her peculiarly respectful method . . .
  • A gently appealing advertisement inspiring us to “Go RV-ing,” airing between Sunday travel shows, has a happy outdoorswoman in cuddly warm gear scooping up a handful of what appear to be cedar twigs and commenting on . . .
  • I write, as they say around here, on the last day of the year. Well, I type; this sort of rambling essay is hardly ever composed beginning-to-end while sitting at a computer. More typically my occasional contribution develops . . .
  • Begging your patience, I offer a holiday coffee break on a blustery afternoon. I wrote the following bit of foolishness several years ago while stranded in Rockland, and some friend of questionable taste asked that I dig it out of the pile. . . .
  • A couple of days ago I heard something on TV about how 80 percent of Christmas tree purchasers this year will be buying an artificial tree. Yeah? Oy vey. Some other fun facts, according to that little fluff news clip, which I have done . . .
  • I’m sorry, I just don’t get “doorbusters.” I must be pretty dense, or cheap, or un-American, but all that elbow-sharpening, hypothermia, and retail hysteria doesn’t look like fun to me. If you enjoy a good street fight, find yourself a nice authentic . . .
  • We three passengers piled our bags and bins and Bean boots and Jax the dog into the airplane, had the usual short discussion about who wanted the front seat (I do not always get it), shoehorned ourselves into our seats . . .
  • Matinicus Island is one of the smallest municipalities in this country, and our not-quite-a-town may well be the easiest place to vote on the planet. I am absolutely serious. No, you still can’t vote here if you aren’t of age and registered . . .
  • Now and then somebody will ask whether I have ever thought about writing a novel, and the answer is no because, I explain, I do not know how. I have never written an earnest word of make-believe in my life. All the fiction required of me in . . .
  • Tuesday last week I sat in the Rock City Café worrying over the marine forecast and scrutinizing far too many online weather prognostications. Eventually, I presented myself at the ferry terminal to ask the question: “Do they think we’ll go tomorrow?” . . .
  • In a perfect world there would be more time. Maine tomatoes would ripen before the Saturday afternoons got chilly, and there would be time to harvest and use or preserve every soft, warm, red fruit in decent weather before things get . . .
  • The chirp of crickets makes it begin to sound like autumn in the dooryard. Brand-new monarch butterflies emerge from their chrysalises to dry their wings and get their bearings on wheelbarrows and extension ladders around the premises . . .
  • As I write, the weather is extraordinarily fine. Kevin’s airplanes of Penobscot Island Air are buzzing overhead as they should, and the harbor must be full of visiting boats — and, I suspect, empty of working boats — because my bakery has . . .
  • Last time we discussed birthday parties for little kids, including how a John Deere tractor is as good entertainment as any ol’ for-hire pony or prestidigitator. Those laughing children (and adults) hoisted aloft in the tractor bucket . . .
  • As our kids were growing up on Matinicus — they having been littles in the 1990s — we took note of the way in which island children’s birthday parties differed from the cliché suburban stress-bombs described by those who bewail . . .
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