Pat Cormier was born on June 12, 1977 in Calais. He has lived the majority of his years in Alexander in the house his great-great grandparents built in 1896. He stands on the shoulders of those before his time, preserving their elevated ideas and extraordinary lifestyles, their adaptability and stories of survival.

He is a singer/songwriter, poet, painter/sculptor, gardener, and patriot of the earth, as were his ancestors. He is a simple extension of them, naturally making the best of his time. For him to have such a life and to greet each day with enthusiasm, respect and gratuity keeps him close to his core,wide eyed and warm,

A POEM FOR BARRY GILES, JR. (1976 - 2013)


Well, I felt you in the wind, my friend

In the blueberry field today,

And through that wild gust of pensive wind

I know, I felt you say.

ďTell everyone to forgive themselves,

thus releasing me,

Find freedom in your heavy hearts,

Iíve transitioned -- beautifully.Ē

Patrick Cormier - August 7, 1913



Few people in this day of living with the Internet, high-speed cars, and the worldwide economy can claim roots like Patrick Cormier. He is living in the house that his great- great grandparents built and on property that was settled before Alexander became a town. Here, he expresses in free verse his feelings about this place.

The land is calling me.

That tender slice of tuckered prosperity.

The harvest brimming in sweet seclusion.

Tilled by hands.

Passed down to test the times.

Cleared and grown.

Gone, coming again.

What heart will have it?

Whose sweat will wear it?

This source of resilient names.

These halls of familiar faces.

I beat the blood of a weathered many.

I breathe my turn.

I touch my face.

I feel their faces.

Through secret gardens,

That behold feathered patches of generations.

I have found the footsteps of home.

For this is them.

This land is me.

A space -- for us.


Am I building rugged enough,

to withstand all the weight that is building?

twenty-five inches of snow, in a December sitting

We hunker down,

tight to the woodstove, the bone broth is brewing,

there is a candle on the window sill for you.

Could my town

blow off the map, leaving flat forest and rockwalls?

What remains if nothing recalls?

Donít rush the winters of life

Patrick Cormier - February 1, 2014



Crystal is the good woman behind Pat, but she is more than that; she is an accomplished artist in her own right.


Crystal Leah McCaslin was born in Machias on August 14, 1980. Her parents are Sheila McCaslin and Barry Giles SR. Crystal came from Portland to live in Alexander in 2005 to escape the city and be with Pat.

Crystal has a broad range of interests including sewing and knitting, drawing and painting, making soap and natural beauty care products, jewelry making and cooking, writing and singing, and medicinal alchemy which was practiced by the first resident of this home over a hundred years ago.

A large part of her artistic interests and ability stem from a family heritage built on frugality and the ability to survive in hard times. She is resourceful and looks at the world in a playful childlike nature. She believes that things transform all the time, so that what may appear as useless can with ones creativity become something of use or something of beauty.

Tight Like Bark To a Tree



ritten and performed by Patrick Cormier


With this heavy cold dew

Are the apples gonna pass?

I donít understand the weather pattern

But I crave its forecast.

So, Solar System, where are we?

Are we floating freely from debris?

Weíve lost the luster bright of green

And soon the trees will shed this scene.

Well I havenít got too far to stroll

Before Iím chest high in white snow

To the woodshed we all go

To stack our firewood tiers high.

Itís cold outside, let us be thankful weíre warm inside

With food on the table that will chase a potato

And a bond so strong

Tight like bark to a tree.

With this cold heavy dew

Are the apples gonna last?

I havenít made any cider

And the golden russets are falling fast.

We awoke this morning to a frost

Thirty degrees, we lost some crops

The sun is shining so letís make hay

And salvage what we can today.


We juggle beer, juggle wine

Pickled peppers and pumpkin pies

Harvest, forage, put food by

And in this land we will survive