H.'s brother John brought a whole quart of fresh Maine blueberries to the camp here. He bought them at the co-op in Belfast.
This morning: blueberry pancakes.
That's it, two words. Blueberry pancakes.
Taste of Blue Hill and Blueberry Hill.
An ongoing quest for the meaning of life. Does true happiness exist in a Tory Burch turquoise-trimmed sheath, a MarieBelle Dark Chocolate Croquette bar, a rose garden, a rocky Maine beach, a daughter's eyes, an inky star-sprinkled sky, hours of computer keystrokes that tell a story--or all of the above?
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