Meanwhile, there was Maine with all its charms and curiosities: Fried clams. The Windham, Maine, property that had a mint condition replica of a 1950s gas station. “Lobstah.” Locals wintering in “Florider.” Lighthouses. The Italian corner store. Winslow Homer. Dark, plump wild turkeys filing across a country road. “Christina’s World.” Old Town Canoes. The seventeen-hundred-pound “chocolate moose.” A public reading of Whittier’s “Snowbound.” A boat and trailer in every other driveway. A Portland Seadogs Double-A baseball game disappearing behind fog. Dunkin Donuts. Sap gushing from a pruned maple limb in the spring. Maple syrup. Bundled and sheltered “CAMP WOOD” for sale along a rural roadside littered with windfallen . . . camp wood. The cottage industry of personal pickups with snowplows. Roiling, whirlpooling, thundering, misting Maine rivers guided by granite through downtowns after a day of heavy rain. Lightning bugs burning spark holes in a June evening.