The thermometer outside our kitchen window hovered halfway between 0 and 10 this morning.

Cozy warm, Rudy (cat) and I felt bad as John (husband) crunched across our backyard to set out feeders and suet for waiting woodpeckers (downy, red belly, hairy), nuthatches (white and red-breasted), white-throated sparrows, cardinals, and the rest.

In anticipation of the morning’s weather, right before lights out last night I picked up the sole book permanently perched on my bed stand – E.B. White’s “One Man’s Meat” – to read “Cold Weather”. White lived on a seaside farm in North Brooklin, Maine not far from Acadia National Park. In January, 1943 he wrote:

“For about a month now we’ve had solid firm cold—firm business-like cold that stalked in and took charge of the countryside … Clean, hard, purposeful cold, unyielding and unremitting. Some days have been clear and cold, others stormy and cold. We have had cold with snow and cold without snow, windy cold and quiet cold, rough cold and indulgent peace-loving cold. But always cold.”

In the piece White says there’s a “fraternity of the cold” to which he’s glad to belong.

Me too.

Several days ago in November at the Sisters in Crime/Mystery Writers of America annual meeting in the Boston area, I stood in front of the crowded ballroom as I – and a dozen or so other authors – were applauded. Each of us had received awards of one type or another for a mystery we published in 2018. Mine was an IPPY (Independent Publisher Book Awards) for “Demon Spirit, Devil Sea”.

I’ve received numerous awards and the like for my books and short stories, but I’d never stood before hundreds of my peers as the big room rang with applause. I think it would’ve been awkward had I been alone up there, but with such a group – many terrific authors – I have to say it felt just terrific.

On any full moon evening when it’s clear, you’ll find me staring eastward as the first glorious bit of light slides up onto the horizon. It’s truly a spectacle of nature and it happens every month!

I can’t really explain my fanatism. The full moon rising is a beautiful sight to be sure, but so are gorgeous sunrises and sunsets and I don’t go running around looking for them. I think my full moon passion has something to do with its simplicity and reliability. An “oo-ah” sunset is gaudy – every color red you can name – and you can’t count on it. In contrast, the rising full moon on a clear night is pure white-gold. And it happens at sunset exactly when NOAA says it will.

On Little John Island where I live, the public dock faces southeast towards Chebeague Island on the other side a good-size channel. It’s a perfect full moon viewing spot. Last evening my husband John (yes, John lives on Little John) stared open-mouthed as the Harvest Moon rose right over the Chebeague Island Inn.

On the way home we agreed, for the thousandth time, that we are so lucky to live in this lovely, lovely place. Neither of us has overwintered here – so I’ll report back mid-winter about the experience of full moon viewing off Little John then.

I live on the coast in southern Maine where ocean waters still warm from summer have a big impact the weather. As New England boaters know too well, the Maine coast is notorious for fog in late August and in September. When cooler fall air meets warm water, you’ve got fog.

There are some terrific literary quotes about fog. Here are a few:

Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make a whole trip that way. (EL Doctorow)

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over the harbor and city on silent haunches, and then moves on. (Carl Sandburg)

Exploratory research is really like working in a fog. You don’t know where you’re going. You’re just groping. Then people learn about it afterward and think how straightforward it was.(Francis Crick)

The coldest summer I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco. (Mark Twain)

Fog engulfs Mara in Demon Spirit, Devil Sea as it did in Cold Blood, Hot Sea. Chapter One of Demon Spirit begins with Mara desperately trying to keep her run-away, rudderless kayak from sweeping her into the cold, deep Pacific Ocean off the Haida Gwaii archipelago. As if fighting the riptide were not enough, fog overtakes her:

Back at the Maine Oceanographic Institute, I’d studied Haida Gwaii’s currents. Longer than wide, Augustine Island protected Kinuk’s inner bay from the Pacific’s ravages. The outer bay was a very different story. A paddler dumb enough to venture out there’d be trapped in current that raced past the island’s tip.

If dumb paddler me zipped past Augustine, the jig would be up. The big ocean’s crashing waves twice the length of my boat, icy water, sharks—I’d be at the mercy of all of it.

What suddenly lay ahead erased all thoughts of currents and sharks. I squinted, squeezed my eyes shut, popped them open. The Maine kayaker’s nightmare.

Fog.

The clammy murk smothered me in an instant. Splashing waves, sky, light. Vanished. Replaced by a wet, woolly gray. My heart beat fast against layers of fleece, paddling jacket, and life vest. Breathing fast and hard, I swiveled and squinted in every direction. The vapor was so dense there was no telling where miasma ended and sea began. Waves booming against rocks said the island was tantalizingly close, but dead blind in fog, I couldn’t see a thing.

The scientist in me kicked in. Water and air warmed by July’s sun met frigid open-ocean. That meant fog. But for once, science couldn’t help me at all.

The kayak raced on through the gloom. Too soon, the booms were muted. I’d just slipped past my refuge. My fate was certain—I would drift out onto vast ocean in a seventeen by two foot boat.

Besides fog, in Demon Spirit Mara deals—among other things—with vanishing visions, hot pools that inexplicably drain, the Haida people’s claim that Raven’s spirit watches over them, a bear attack, and a (genuine) dispute between the U.N. and the Haida Nation. The book will be published in spring/early summer in time for summer reading.