I’ve taken many photos of this bridge, but never while snow is falling.

Actually, finding a day when it is not snowing would provide the rare photo op these last few weeks!

There is something about this bridge for me, I’ve written about it before.

It’s not even pretty, really.

Just green iron in patterns that have become familiar.

From wherever I’ve lived in my life, I have crossed this bridge on my way to Maine.

Shortly after I drive from the bridge, there is a blue sign that tells me I’m welcome in Maine, and informs me that Maine is the way life should be.

Oh ya.

I don’t even mind the ‘should’.

Because all logic goes out the window for me, when it comes to Maine.

I’m smitten.

When we were first restoring The Inn (not a real ‘inn’, just once an ‘inn’ so we call it that), we were told by many local folks that there was nowhere they’d rather be than midcoast Maine in the summer. (Okay, they said ‘summ-ah’.)

I’m sure other places could make the same claim, but I wasn’t sweating out an old house restoration project in any of those places. And I came to believe the same thing as these people do.

It’s a pretty magnificent place to be in the summer.

Warm days, cool nights.

Lobster boats.

Salt air.

But, as we get the old house ready for living here full-time, I am spending far more time up here in the off-season, and it is absolutely beautiful in the winter.

And fall.

And even in the muddy, ‘mud season’ of spring.

Right now, with all the snow we’ve had (it is over my head in some places here), it’s not easy.

Today I was talking about it to a few people at the General Store, where I go for coffee each morning when I’m here, no matter how cold or snowy it is.

Shoveling has become an ongoing activity, reminding me of the saying we learned while we were living in Australia, “It’s like painting the Sydney Harbor Bridge”, which was all about getting to the end of a job and having to start all over again.

Old houses are not easy to keep warm, and there are many old houses on the island.

One woman said she was melting snow and using it in her humidifier. She laughed (she had a great laugh) and said she had plenty of water, but thought she needed to put the snow to use somewhere.

Stuck cars are pretty common.

Yesterday I offered to help three people over the course of a half hour, while I was out photography-ing.  Each person smiled and thanked me, but they only lived ‘down the road’.  All three said either “My honey is on his way” or “My honey is coming ov-ah” (And the great part about that was that one of the three was an elderly man, who added, “with say-and”).

And sure, the snow is heavy and I’ve dealt with a few snow and winter issues since I’ve been here.  But I love it.

I just love it.

And it’s the bridge that delivers me here.

I am reminded of an E.B. White quote, one I have quoted here before.

I think of Mr. White’s quote every time I cross the bridge. Regardless of season, or time of day.

And I smile.

“What happens to me when I cross the Piscataqua and plunge rapidly into Maine at a cost of seventy-five cents in tolls? I cannot describe it. I do not ordinarily spy a partridge in a pear tree, or three French hens, but I do have the sensation of having received a gift from a true love.”

Stark.

Eery.

Haunting.

My beautiful bridge, even in winter.

My gateway to Maine.

Thanks for readin’.

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