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New England Memories
At Yankee, we know that New England speaks to people in different ways. Yet seemingly everyone who's spent time in our region-- a day or a lifetime -- has a lasting memory of it. We've created this blog for lovers of New England to share memories.
As the rest of the world starts to look an awful lot alike, New England stubbornly retains a unique character that has made it a welcoming home for hundreds of years.
Do you have a memory to submit for consideration? Submissions must be about New England and be about 1,000 words. Our editors will select one each month to highlight on the Web. Start here: memories@yankeepub.com .
The Healing Touch
When Comfort is the Only Medicine
December 22, 2008 at 11:01 AM | Post a Comment
To cure sometimes, to relieve often, to comfort always. -attributed to Hippocrates
I saw Mr. C's last name on the board. Was he still alive? No, the first initial didn't belong to him...He was long gone...
The first time I met Mr. C, he was slumped in a chair, unable to move his right leg. Gray speckled his brown hair, the same shade of brown as his eyes, now tearing from pain. His wife grasped a folder full of notes from their physicians, carrying a diagnosis they could not pronounce for a cancer rarely diagnosed in adults.
Summer Place
Being a Child in the Woods
December 8, 2008 at 10:40 AM | 1 Comment | Post a Comment
A burnt house stood deep in the woods near my childhood Connecticut home. During the summers of the early '60s, my friends and I visited often.
We peddled blue bikes up the crooked sidewalk and turned onto a bumpy path. Our voices vibrated, our hands tingled, wind feathered our hair. As the sounds of the street faded away, we entered the place that bonded us to nature and each other, and became our summer playground.
Maine Reflections
The Poetry of Cynthia Brackett-Vincent
December 1, 2008 at 10:06 AM | 4 Comments | Post a Comment
In Maine,
virgin soil is still tilled as I walk; oxen strain
to pull a large fieldstone from its place.
The hard crack is heard of stone on stone--
each one upon the last as walls are built up.
Women in long dresses bend, pluck blackberries
Poetry of K. A. Markee
Two Poems from Maine
November 24, 2008 at 4:43 PM | 1 Comment | Post a Comment
The Blind
On Sundays too he would rise before dawn
and brew a pot of coffee over the fire,
then call the dogs with a backwards yawn
before packing up decoys, weights and wire
in a wicker backpack and two homemade hods.
New England Blue
One last walk on the beach before winter
November 17, 2008 at 10:36 AM | Post a Comment
The last day at the beach. Again. How many years have we observed this ritual? At least a dozen, maybe more. Infants grew to toddlers and transformed to men building sand castles on this beach and cannonballing from the splintery, decaying dock into the shockingly cold and smooth aqua marbled lake.
