Notes from Maine - 2022/08/28
I grew up in the suburbs of Washington DC, and only came to Maine a few weeks out of the year. I was never once resentful about being removed from my home and friends to come up here. I loved coming up here. In Maine, I felt like I was on the edge of civilization. We were a half hour drive from Augusta, the state capital, but the woods were “lovely, dark and deep,” one might say. You might venture out, wander around, and discover a trail. It might lead to a rickety bridge across a small stream. The next time out, you might get up the nerve to cross to the other side and explore even farther.
Sometimes my sister and I would walk down the Spaulding Bridge Road. It was nothing more than two wheel ruts nearly swallowed by the tree canopy as it led down to the lake. At the beginning of my childhood, that’s where the path ended—at the lake. The bridge had been gone for a long time. It was an old logging road, and I was told that an overloaded truck had toppled the old bridge, spilling its cargo into the stream. Lying in evidence, a dozen or so logs were still present. They were so waterlogged that only one end of each log poked up above the surface of the water. To this day, turtles use the logs as perches to sun themselves.
When the snowmobile club installed a new bridge, my sister and I were able to cross the lake and walk up the Spring Hill Road. Halfway up the hill, an ancient cemetery had a small picket fence surrounding mossy headstones. At the top of the hill, Eleanor and Al George lived in an old farmhouse. We were welcome to visit any time. They had a friendly dachshund, tumbler pigeons, and a pond with enormous golden koi fish. The latches on the duck pens had spring-loaded locks so the raccoons couldn’t get inside. If it was cold outside, their living room would be eighty degrees (twenty-six Celsius) with the wood stove pumping out steady, dry heat. Eleanor sat in a rocking chair near the bay window at the edge of an oval rag rug with the dog near her feet.
If it was raining outside the family would sometimes pile into the station wagon and head down to Hallowell. There was a strip of antique stores on the main drag. I would look at rusted old toys that I wasn’t allowed to touch. My parents found a roll top desk that my father regretted not buying until the day he died. I thought it was more fun if we stayed at my grandparents’ house. My brother would go out and shoot at wet things with his BB gun, my sister would read her book, and I would wander through the dusty barn, looking through the old trunks.
If the weather was bad, afternoons could be devastatingly boring at my grandparents’ house. They would watch TV—often Merv Griffin or Lawrence Welk. I remember watching Mike Buzulchuck go on an amazing run in the Maine Candlepin Bowling League.
My nephew just left yesterday. I wonder how he’ll remember his trips up to my house. While they were here, his grandmother painted the entire barn (she managed to finish it, despite my pessimism). My sister and I took him to the beach a couple of times. Aunt Mary was here for the second trip. We got to show her Popham Beach for the first time. My house is a leaping-off point for adventure, not solely a destination.
I’m going to clear out the toy closet this year. All the kids in our friend/family group have outgrown the games and toys, and I don’t suspect that another wave of kids is coming any time soon. It’s just clutter here, and those things should go to families who will enjoy them.
Fall is coming and I have the urge to get rid of stuff.
Speaking of which, my friend is coming over in a bit to take away one of the go karts we built years ago. That’s one more thing out of the basement!
