When this blog began, Bailey Tuckerman Kent was an 8-week-old Bernese Mountain Dog living in the western mountains of Maine with his writer dad, Rich. These are their stories.... and don't forget, click on most photos to enlarge.
The girls went wild over the spring smells today with temperatures in the fifties. I’m dragged this way and that as we stride up the Yellow trail on Whitecap. Every few steps one of the girls will slow to a stop—the smells lure them into a coma and they stand breathing in the smell until I jerk their leash to bring them back to reality.
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| Crossing the lower Connector trail |
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| Cleaning the Dirt Mobile |
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| Some of the tools of the evening |
At 2am, nature calls. As I walk back to my room by the door to the first floor, I sense something. In bed, my thoughts churn. A few minutes later I get up and stand at the top of the stairs again. Now, a whisper of a familiar smell.
I dress fully, boots and all. As I head down stairs with my headlamp on high, that whisper of a smell turns into a steady moan. I knew what I’d find.
Little Maggie, eyes averted, sits at the back of her crate with a spread of diarrhea at her feet. I get to work: spread 7 or 8 towels on the walk from the crate to the back doors; grab rug cleaner, dog wash soap, sponges, dish towels; turn on lots of lights; and grab Maggie’s leash. I open the crate and hook up the princess....
To avoid spreading the filth, I lead her with strong hands to the back deck. I leash her to the outside railing and get to work cleaning. I’ve lost track how often this has happened, but it's pretty clear that the culprit are treats.
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| Not a happy hiker. |
After 3 miles of hiking, I attempted to teach Maggie the finer points of heeling. Well, that didn’t go well. First she’d pull then she’d sit, and other times she’d look at me as if I were a dust mite. The push and pull of the final 10 minutes made for a really bad finish to our hike. Above is what she looked like after our session. Me? I regretted the whole adventure. I was too irritated to take a selfie. We live and learn.
A mentor and dear friend, JoAnne Zywna gave her time and thoughtful responses to my first novel, Summer Blue, and my first chapbook of poetry, Entering Weld (1981). From the late 1970s, we've shared laughter, books, losses, long talks, the Town of Weld, music, and our writing. In the 1990s, JoAnne came to Mountain Valley High School in Rumford (ME) to teach English with me for several years after a long stint at Mount Blue HS in Farmington (ME). We both taught writing at the University of Maine at Farmington. As teachers, we have always placed our students at the center of our classroom lives.
Over the past 50 years, JoAnne has written a poem a day in her daybook. I remember her reading poems to me at her home in Weld. That writing inspired my own, and this past year I decided her poems needed a larger audience beyond the regional magazines and literary journals they had appeared in. So, I offered to edit and publish JoAnne's poems. We worked during 2024, and the chapbook, Once and Gone, has now been published. Our mutual friend, the artist Mary Hart, supplied the cover art for the book, and we're thrilled with the response from Weld and western Maine folks, colleagues, and friends near and far.
JoAnne's residence, American House, a national organization of senior living communities, featured her story in their magazine: The Poetic Life of JoAnne Zywna.
SCENT AND SENSE
The cutting of boughs
a traipsing through soil
softened by early December rain
to study a stand of firs
and making aesthetic decisions
about which branches to remove,
which seedlings to uproot.
A singular scent
rolls up and over me,
the hope of Christmas,
the gift of earth.
The roar I thought was wind
persisted.
I stepped to the deck
to check my senses,
was encircled by a familiar sound,
the one I listen for in April,
the one I approach with shovel,
to re-direct the whirling current
away from my road.
Tonight, January thaw
has loosed the ice
and water plunges and pounds
like tympani avenging all those rests.
My heart skips one, two beats.
Tomorrow, will I have a way out?
–JZ
