I stumbled upon Jacob Bailey, aged 59 years and five months when he died in 1879, buried at land’s end in a tiny coastal Maine graveyard, in the path of the sea breeze and the offshore lobstering mens’ shouts.
In the harbor beyond the cemetery, a trio of anchored lobster boats bobbed as they’ve always done, their captains lobstering the way they’ve always done it, since before Bailey was born.
Surrounding his grave, silent relics from the past tilted and leaned away from the sea, as though pushed aside by the tirade of yearly nor’easters.
But on the water, it was business as usual for an orange-clad lobsterman, with nary a nod towards the past—even as it presented itself like a mirror image.
I’m frequently shooting things from the past. You’ll find more in my Time Travels, HERE.