On Sunday morning I saw two motorcycles flying low over our fair city. I think there is another name for them technically, but they sounded like two motorcycles as they drifted overhead in the general direction of Chickawaukie, each suspended from a colorful parachute. It was a lovely morning to go riding in the sky.

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On a smaller scale, but no less interesting, somebody was flying a purple kite Friday on the lawn beside the railroad end, at the bottom of Linden Street. And the lawn is all green now. I hesitate to sound too optimistic, but perhaps winter is gone at last? Perhaps. Last week we enjoyed the warmest day since last fall, I believe, and according to the electronic sign at the bank opposite the courthouse on Union Street it was 66 degrees at 5:20 p.m. (I think it was Thursday.) And I saw little blue flowers growing on a lawn at Talbot Avenue.

What was I doing on Talbot Avenue so far from my stately concrete grain towers on Mechanic Street, you might ask? Indeed you might. Perhaps I was lost, or just trying to be.

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A restaurant recently opened in what was once attorney Barry Faber’s office building on Main Street. They call it 3 Crow, which I take to be a slightly creative reference to the three black birds that formed the trademark of the Bird company, a Rockland importer and merchant in the 19th century. The memory of this company lingers chiefly in the name of the Bird Block on Tillson Avenue, which is now home to the Coast Guard.

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My elevated perch in the east tower gives me a fine view of Rockland Harbor, and lately I have noticed more and more mooring buoys appearing on the water. Just you wait and see if in a few weeks this does not translate into more and more boats being tied up out there, too.

A neighbor on Fulton Street died last month, and according to a mutual friend who was out walking with him in the last few days he said he sure was going to miss his daily view of the harbor. He had invited several acquaintances to have lunch with him at Archers one Thursday because he still had new ideas he wanted to discuss, but while two or three of us were in the middle of making our arrangements the news came that he had gone the night before. Gone.

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The other day I watched the city patching up a particularly deep hole in the pavement near the foot of Pleasant Street. By the time they actually got around to filling it with dirt the hole was unkindly deep, and you had to make sure not to drive across it for fear of losing your teeth.

I might have mentioned before that our roads are generally a disgrace. Have I?

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S mentioned the other day that she is thinking of specializing in a new therapeutic treatment she has invented, called inacupuncture. She said it will not matter in the slightest where the needles go in, and “in the end it will be just like darts.”

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The Portland Squirrel, said to be a daily paper published in a community somewhere down the coast near New Hampshire, recently reported there will be no landfills left in Maine in a few years. A couple of days before they came out with this alarming intelligence I had a conversation with an employee at our very own Lime City dump, out on Limerock Street. I asked how much longer our landfill has left before it reaches street level, and was told the current estimate is about five years.

Slowly an idea dawns, and if you cannot already see it for yourself then more’s the pity. Perhaps our roads are being kept deliberately in a state of disrepair so that when the quarry is full they can simply start packing the stuff into the potholes? We might actually have an additional five years of landfill capacity in our sorry roads as they stand today, and I am sure that by a judicious policy of ignoring all repairs we might even be able to eke that out for twice as long.

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I have several friends in the insurance business, and lately one of them was regaling me with tales of terror. Until joining this profession he had no idea how much risk there is out there he said, gripping the table with both hands to steady himself. This ever present threat of legitimate peril came to mind as I watched workmen fiddling with the edge of a roof at one of the larger blocks along Main Street, the other afternoon.

Tracing the skyline of that roof over to the block next door I was reminded that once upon a time that particular two-story block had a third story. If you go upstairs at 407 you will find, to the right, a door that opens to a staircase that leads nowhere any more, since the additional floor was lost. Likewise, the flat-topped building that now accommodates Camden National Bank on Main Street once possessed a pitched roof. Fire did for both of those places, I believe. Certainly the bank building lost its original roof when the Hotel Rockland burned down in the early 1950s, flattening two-thirds of the intersection at Park Street.

David Grima is a former editor with Courier Publications. He can be reached at davidgrima@ymail.com, or by flying over the grain towers on a motorcycle.