As time goes on, you can expect to find on this page a wide-ranging collection of our memories of Barbara Cooney and a close look at her life, her phenomenal career and the body of work she produced over a period of more than half a century. Among her more than 110 books for children were two Caldecott Medal winners, Chanticleer and the Fox (1959 ) and Ox Cart Man (1980), and many people will of course remember her best for her widely acclaimed book, Miss Rumphius, which won the National Book Award in 1983.

Of all her books, Island Boy was closest to her heart she said. Barbara Cooney loved the state of Maine, and when, on December 12th in 1996, she was the first person ever to be named a Living Treasure of the State of Maine by Governor Angus King, she considered that to be not only the pinnacle of her career . . . but of her life. She was born on August 6th, 1917, and died on March 10th, 2000.

We at the Maine Coast Book Shop & Café feel we can justifiably claim Barbara for our own. She was, after all, the mother of Barnaby Porter and a wonderful friend and mother-in-law of Susan Porter, the owner of and primary force at our bookshop for over 35 years. Barbara was at one time Susan’s silent partner, having always wanted to be able to say she at least owned part of a bookshop herself. So we have found ourselves thinking of late, with the magic of this website, that we should bring Barbara Cooney back to life in a way only we who were closest to her can.

A favorite story in our family recounts the occasion when a man named Donald proposed to our cousin, Patsy. On a beautiful summer evening, Donald said to her, "Patsy? . . . You like picnics . . . right? . . . And I really like picnics . . . So let's get married." And they did. And they had many, many, many picnics for all the rest of their days.

Well, Patsy and Donald were not alone in their picnicking passion, because our whole family was a horde of unabashed picnickers. And Barbara Cooney was a picnicker of the first water. She was way up there in the picnicker hierarchy, producing the finest treats and delicacies, beautiful salads, great wines and cheeses and fresh home-made loaves of bread. Sometimes it was just the simple bread, cheese and wine combo, or maybe watercress sandwiches. More often than not though, there was a serious meal that spilled out from that picnic basket, requiring a charcoal fire to cook steaks, a generous flat place to lay out the feast, and a kid or two to fetch things from the boat or car (depending on where we were) and to keep the dog out of trouble.

They were long, lingering picnics, often preceded by the marshalling of a small fleet of boats owned by various cousins and friends, who all set sail for the little island across the bay, there to join us in laying out a spread that would choke a whale. The baskets and coolers of iced tea were brought ashore. Firewood had to be collected. We walked around the island of course and went swimming. We held periwinkle races and looked for lucky stones.

And Barbara presided over the scene as the Master Picnicker she was, who had put it all together so expertly from her many years of practice. She just loved picnics, especially on the water, and was never happier. Lunch picnics, evening picnics – it made no difference. They were her favorite way to celebrate and savor a beautiful place, a beautiful setting.