Winter in Maine

My heart broke once when I left Paris but healed in California. However this is in Maine that I leave it at the end of every summer.
I am forever grateful for the small red cabin (my kids named it Snow White’s house when they were little) that my husband and I bought on a rainy Labor Day weekend fifteen years ago.
Even more grateful that our Maine retreat is called a camp by the locals and not a summer home, that it is not in touristic Maine but in Central Maine, on a pond and not a lake, and near a town that has known better days.  Places like that smell and taste of hardship and broken dreams.  And of human resilience that should shame many.
This morning, as most mornings, I scanned the news online. I read that stocks surge over strong holiday sales, that Europe ponders if they should help or drop poorer countries in the union and that the US considers sending robots in Afghanistan. 
I also read the following article. 
And my heart goes to the Mainers who, summer after summer, welcome floods of visitors but remain quite alone when cold weather arrives.    

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