You love Maine. You just love it the way a lobster loves a trap: completely committed, no way out, mildly aware this ends badly. That is what the black heart is for. It is affection, but it is affection that has survived five months of snow, a mud season that eats boots, and black flies with a personal vendetta against your neck.
This is for the people who brag about living here while scraping ice off a windshield in April. Who consider 48 degrees and overcast a beach day. Who have strong, unhinged opinions about whether that thing in the roll should have mayo on it. Who have hit a deer, a turkey, or something larger that they do not want to talk about.
Soft enough to live in from the first thaw to the first flurry, with a print that holds up better than your driveway does. Roomy, broken-in comfort, stitching that can take a winter, and zero itch.
