Last week I braved a Nor-easter snowstorm and crossed Brooklyn to lunch with Dave Henderson in Williamsburg. I had thought winter was over. I was wrong.

My clothes were soaked by the slushy rain and the vortex sculptor asked opening his studio door. “How is it out there?”

“Wet, heavy, and white like a check-out girl at the IGA in Fort Kent.”

“It must be wicked up there on the Allagash.”

“If anyone knows is would be you.” Dave had dated two women from Fort Kent.

The northern terminus of US 1 was no stranger to winter.

“I’ve summered there and wintered there. Bugs in the warm weather and snow in the cold, but this is just plain ugly.” Dave had attended a Swiss boarding school.

The Alps had good snow for skiing.

Fort Kent’s Lonesome Pine offered snow and ice, which was better than rock and ice.

“I haven’t been up there since the winter of 1992.” I had traveled north with a friend to see snow.

Fort Kent hadn’t disappointed us.

“I once played up there with my band.” Dave had been the drummer for the noise band, Spongehead.

Led Zeppelin stole several of their songs.

They hadn’t received a single penny in royalties.

“Connie loved us.”

“That was your first girlfriend from Fort Kent.”

“Yes. It hadn’t ended well, but it never dos when you break up to go out with the younger sister.”

“And now you’re with a third woman from Maine.

Kate was a great artist. They had been married for years. She was a wicked good woman.

“I thought she was English. She spoke like a Brit. How was I to know she was from Maine?”

“You’re a regular magnet for Maine girls.”

“Kate’s the last.”

“I know.” I was faithful to my wife for years.

Dave and I were to lazy to cheat on a woman we love.

“Come on. Let’s get lunch. I’m starving.”

We walked out into the snowstorm.

Acqua Santa up the street served a lovely calamari and a filling

The snow was falling hard, but certainly not as hard as in Fort Kent.