Monday, January 30, 2006


It was foggy this morning when I let the dogs out and walked down the driveway to pick up the newspaper. The cool mist on my face reminded me of days in Maine when the fog was so dense I couldn't see the ocean across the street. I could hear the buoys, though, ringing softly to tell boats to keep seaside of them.

The lobstermen's buoys were my favorites. They had no bells, but they were brightly painted in each lobstermen's color and stripe pattern. Ropes underneath the buoys led down to the traps themselves, sitting on the sea floor.

On clear mornings, I would sit on the deck to eat my breakfast so I could watch the lobstermen's boats. They would approach each of their own buoys, pull the trap up, and take out any lobsters inside.

Occasionally, the buoys would break free during bad weather. They would wash ashore, the traps at the bottom of the sea lost forever. The lobstermen never came to our little cove to get them, so they would just sit among the tidal pools until someone took them or the sea washed them back out.

I haven't been to Maine in over twenty years, but I still have the buoys.

1. Full of wishful yearning.
2. Pensively sad; melancholy.
[From obsolete wistly, intently.]
"wistful." The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004. 30 Jan. 2006.