A Wall in My Room: Part 3

People's taste evolves. It grows more complex and requires more to satisfy its increasing appetite. Starting in August, I decorated my wall with pieces of things found in the world around me. I started small with a piece of driftwood from Lake Champlain in Vermont and a few odds and ends from a flea market in Woolwich, Maine. From there I found a blanket at a garage sale and an American flag at an antique mall near my school. Recently, I pulled everything down and added some new finds.

My most prized piece of L.L. Bean clothing I own: vintage barn jacket.

My two favorite packs.

Face t0 face.

Shoes I have loved.

I like red details.

I enjoy the process of envisioning something and then trying my best to execute it, even more than the final result. In a few months I will grow restless and take it all down again, but I am okay with that.

Here are some more links,
A Wall in My Room: Part 3 (Picasa),
A Wall in My Room: Part 2 (ART),
A Wall in My Room: Part 1 (ART).

The Coldest Days are Always Sunny

The coldest days are always sunny. Before moving to Maine in the fall of 2006, I had never experienced brutally cold weather. I grew up snowboarding a couple times a week on Mt. Hood, where the temperature rarely drops below 20°, and felt prepared for my first winter in the Deep South of the Far North. Walking to class one morning in January, my hair froze into a Ace Ventura-like sculpture on top of my wet head. I had walked 100 feet.

Last week, a cold front from Canada swept down from the arctic by way of some desolate land in Canada. 93.5 the River, Central Maine's classic rock radio station that advertises ice fishing bait suppliers and snowmobile customizing shops and claims to be Hillary Clinton's least favorite radio station, warned of the looming subzero temperatures. They don't fear monger. I took note.

When the temperature turns negative, the pace of life changes. People stay inside. They watch TV and read. Buttons on key chains warm up cars before their drivers leave on errands. Last week, I ventured out, seeking the solitude and quiet of cold sunny days in late January.

A brackish outlet in Reid State Park filled with slushy runoff from a nearby 7-Eleven.

A vacant business in Augusta.

A solid tidepool in Casco Bay.

Snowmobile tracks on a vacant Messalonskee Lake.

Polo Cashmere Cardigan, Polo Gingham Shirt, APC New Standard Jeans, Georgia Ranch Boots, White Stag Parka, Barbour Scarf, and my Woolrich Hunting Gloves.

Despite the bright sun, the biting wind and X-ray like cold penetrate even the thickest jackets and gloves. Ears turn white and fingers shake in the subzero quiet of January in Maine.

Here are some more links,
The Coldest Days are Sunny (Picasa).

Woolrich Horse Skin Hunting Gloves

I am a dreamer. The ideas and stories behind clothes are always more pure and unspoiled than the physical incarnation of a product. For example, I am really drawn to L.L. Beans' outdoor history and their loyalty to Leon's original vision, but I don't own a pair of Bean boots. With that said, every so often, I find a product that I am drawn to like a 13 year old to Twilight.

A few weeks ago, my friend Bethany sent me these vintage Woolrich Horse Skin Hunting Gloves. Designed for hunting, the horse leather flap on the right hand flips back enabling trigger control. I fell in love with the gloves as soon as I unwrapped them.

Judging by the stitching and the worn tag, these gloves could be from the 40's or earlier.

After decades of use, the virgin wool is surprisingly supple and smooth. I love the black and red stripes and the crossover around the wrist.

More importantly than their fine craftsmanship and beautiful design, these gloves fit perfectly into my romanticized world of Ice Shacks in Maine, Hikes in the Snow in the Cascades, Drives throughout frozen New England, and Campfires at Sunset. The slit in the right hand could just as easily drop the shutter of my 5d Mark II as open a Swiss Army Knife or fire a six-gun. I always identified with Flannery O'Conner's 1955 title to her short story, "A Good Man is Hard to Find." Well a good glove is hard to find too, and I have found mine.

Here are some more links,
My Woolrich Horse Skin Gloves (Picasa),
My Own Private New England (ART),
Ice Fishing Shacks in Maine (ART),
A Campfire at Sunset (ART).

My Own Private New England

In four months to the day, I will pack up my belongings and move away from New England for the foreseeable future. Three years ago, I arrived at Boston International Airport, naive, unsuspecting and excited to spend four years at a tiny college nestled in the Maine woods. It wasn't until my junior year that my curiosity drove me out of the walls of my college and I started appreciating the history and texture of the area around me. As the shadow of moving away from New England edges closer, I find myself looking for excuses to explore bumpy side roads that connect the forests and fields of Northern New England.

Crates in a lumber yard near Unity, Maine.

Convenience store near Decker Corner, Maine.

Locomotive breath near Detroit, Maine.

Jeep delivery truck near Dodge Corner, Maine. I wish it was mine.

A country road near the New Hampshire and Maine border.

A pair of weathered barns near Burnham, Maine.

A lone tree in a field near Shoreham, Vermont.

Aimlessly, I wander the cracked roads, listening to songs on repeat and measuring my trips in time, not miles traveled. I drive alone. Stopping often, I leave the car running as I skip across the road and into the snow. Through the lens of my camera, I try to capture my own private New England.

Here are some more links,
My Last Four Months in New England (Picasa),
Side of the Road (ART).