|Harry's first trip to Maine|
The end of the summer is always a little melancholy, although I'm not sure why. Weather promises to remain agreeable for another few months, and there's still plenty of time before snow falls. Maybe it's as simple as what fall used to signal, and still does long after such days are past: going back to school. At this point in life, the end of August for me isn't about school, it's about tee shirts and hot afternoons. Yet the feeling that change is just around the corner -- that maybe it's time to order some firewood -- is the same. Soon, it'll be time to hunker down, stay inside, get busy.
|Stencil House at Shelburne Museum|
This year, as I have in years past, I left town in August to visit friends Gloria and Ed who have a lovely old farmhouse on the coast of Maine, in a tiny place called Machiasport on the eastern-most point of the country. I left on August 12 and, before arriving at my final destination, spent two days in Middlebury, Vermont with pal Mark. Our mission there was to visit the Shelburne Museum
http://shelburnemuseum.org/visit/about-the-museum/museum-story/, a remarkable repository of 150,000 artifacts established by philanthropist and collector Electra Havemeyer Webb. Mrs. Webb was a pioneer in the collection of folk art and Americana, founding this museum that is made up of 38 individual buildings, 25 of which were purchased and relocated to the museum from around New England and New York, and including the 220-foot steamboat Ticonderoga. Of special note is one of the buildings, The Stencil House, which we discovered was once in Sherburne...or Columbus...or Sherburne...or Columbus. Even the museum docents weren't sure, and have apparently argued for some time about where in fact the house originated. It was moved to the museum in the mid-1940s because Mrs. Webb learned of its stenciled walls, decorated (we were told) by journeymen stencilers from the 1800s right here in Columbus (or Sherburne). I promised the arguing docents that I would set about discovering where the house was located -- Sherburne or Columbus -- and let them know once and for all (clearly this a job for the folks at Sherburne's Historic Park Society).
|View from the back yard of full moon rising over the bay|
We arrived in Maine on August 15 and were greeted by shingle houses, blueberries, blue blue skies, bluer water, and lobstah. Lots and lots of lobstah. We relaxed and talked and listened to music in a house with no TV. We went to the local fish fry, and the fabulous blueberry festival. We wandered down to the Machiasport Historical Society's annual lobster luncheon and ate still more of the succulent sea meat, along with corn on the cob and fish stew and blueberry cobbler. Gloria and I sat in the screened-in tent overlooking the ocean and full moon until 3 a.m., and would have stayed longer had a black bear not drifted by, snorting and clacking its teeth. Harry, who remains unaware that he is only 15 pounds, scared the bear off. The bear, however, scared us off. We scrambled into the house dragging a snapping Harry behind, tripping over each other and slamming doors. We're told black bears are more afraid of us than we are of them. I doubt that, considering both Gloria and I came close to losing bladder function in our mad dash to safety.
Bears and bladders aside, there is something truly special about Maine. It is not unlike central New York in many ways with its green fields speckled with late summer purples and yellows; with its cows grazing and peaked roofs on white houses. Yet there is a difference: a calmness of Downeasters, as the residents there are known, with their unusual Katharine Hepburn accent ("Yes, deah"); a rosy-cheeked honesty from fellows named Fuzzy; the enduring "Ah-yuh" signaling the affirmative from the bearded lobstermen. The seniors there are so senior, not in action but in age: "I'm three months into my 97th year, Deah" says Gloria's cousin Billie, who by looks appears to be in her seventies (if that). Billie's sister is 100 and going strong. The air is fresh with a touch of brine, and sunrise is worth getting up for (or sometimes, worth staying up for if not for bears). Maine is the tranquil land of Stephen King, who so accurately describes her clouds in 'Salem's Lot as moving across the sky, always west to east, white ships with gray keels. Maine gets into your bones, and when you leave there is an ache to return, having to do with an inexplicably nostalgic desire to be in a place of Revolutionary War sea captains and lighthouses warning fishermen away from rocky shores; of old wallpaper and velvet chair arms worn thin by generations of elbows; of family cemeteries, ancient and tiny and heart-wrenching (Little Frankie, carved on a tilting headstone, who died at six); of bald eagles circling fields and musical trees rustling an age-old song; and of people, who grow old with beauty and grace and who seem to understand that quiet simplicity in day-to-day life may be the elusive peace for which we all search.
Next year, I may go back for a month.
|PS: I didn't see a moose, |
in spite of roadside warnings
I arrived home yesterday to face other music: the seasonal tune. Yes, summer is coming to an end...again. And that's okay. When I have such dear people in my life as Mark and Gloria and Ed with whom to spend the waning days of summer in New England, I count my blessings. Now, with Maine behind me, it's time to order some wood.