Last week, as much of the world’s religions paused for the holiest season, our phones were overloaded with political news.

We saw the former POTUS arrested for an alleged hush money payoff to a porn movie star. We saw elections in Wisconsin and Chicago move to the left. We watched as the Tennessee legislature expelled two young black Democrat members who had the audacity to insist the body do something in the wake of the murder of three 9-year-old schoolgirls and the three adults who tried to protect their charges at a private Christian school. If that was not enough, we saw a U.S. Supreme Court justice admit he accepted millions in favors from a big-shot GOP donor and two federal courts issue opposite rulings in abortion-related cases.

Is that enough? How about this? Political pundits and pros on both sides posed serious questions about elderly candidates. For the record, the current POTUS was born on Nov. 20, 1942. The former POTUS was born on June 14, 1946. You do the math.

No matter who is chosen in 2024, the job of POTUS is the toughest in the world. Should we elect a candidate who is well into their 80s?

Once upon a time – listen up, Social Security recipients – our generation once said we should not trust anyone over 30. Thirty?

Well, heavens to Murgatroyd, Mr. Snagglepuss, that was a half century ago, a time when we drove cars with manual transmissions and cooled the cab by opening the little vent windows. They had another purpose, too. If you just cracked them a bit, they would suck out the cigarette smoke. Remember when everyone smoked?

And, just for the record, while pundits and political experts(?) tell us how our political discourse is getting too rough, look back to 1968.

Let me remind you of a few facts. We saw draft dodgers bragging about how their family influence kept them out of uniform. We watched riots in the streets, political conventions featuring tear gas, and a major candidate and a civil rights leader assassinated. For me, the best news was when I shook the Vietnamese mud off my boots, landed in the U.S., and hung my Marine uniform in the closet, where it remains. Oh yes, I remember that was the year an East Boothbay gal smiled at me and said “Yes."

Here on this tiny peninsula, a corner of the world my sainted mother-in-law calls “God’s Pocket,” businesses are getting ready for the onslaught of tourists as they hope Chuck Fuller will quickly finish the footbridge project. The schools are repairing the damages inflicted by winter storms as they borrow classroom space from generous donors, including the YMCA. Thanks to all who volunteered who are helping with that project.

As school kids try to cope with the changes, the educators and their various public boards ponder the costs and whether they should, or could, consider long-debated improvements.

Oh, I almost forgot, as friends gather around the breakfast tables at our favorite coffee shop, they whisper the word hospice as they speak of longtime pals.

The Red Sox are in last place. The good news is that the Yankees’ record isn’t much better.

And, perish the thought, Mother Nature dared to push a storm through the pristine green landscape of Augusta National Golf Club, laying a couple of towering pines across the 17th tee. This disgrace sent the patrons, not paying customers, and golfers heading for shelter. How dare she? Disrupt the Masters? Shame.

Despite the political folderol that sends some of us into a swivet, (auto-correct insists I mean swivel, not swivet), the sun still comes up over the Damariscotta River each morning and sets behind the Sheepscot at cocktail time. Snow piles disappear as warm breezes lure us out of our winter cocoons to rake the gardens, pick up fallen limbs and put the snow shovels away.

The clerks at Hannaford kept up with the demand for eggs and packets of magical powder used to color them. For a change, the price of eggs has come down from the stratosphere.

And we gathered with family and friends to celebrate Easter, we wondered how our babies are growing into young adults.

Warm breezes brought ospreys back to their craggy nests as red-winged blackbirds twittered around wetlands looking for the best nesting spots. Tulips and daffodils are peeking their noses out of the dirt.

I think I will get another cup of coffee and may, just may, drive over to Ocean Point and stroll along the shore. Maybe I’ll see you there.

All in all, life is not too bad after all.