FOOD & DRINK
Long Way Home
“Anybody want this lost dogs?” the man’s voice grated over the aisles of the Winter Harbor 5 & 10. We froze, my kids and I. We couldn’t see the man or the dog because we were four aisles away, come to pick out a broom and a screwdriver for me and art supplies for Cait, my four-year-old daughter, and Aran, my eight-year-old son. It poured outside — a drab March rain. The town of Winter Harbor, on the down east coast, borders the village of Prospect Harbor, where we lived then. Like ours, it was a fishing community with a working harbor, clapboard houses, and a small library flooded with light and color from its stained-glass windows.
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