Arrival in Maine

We left Boston, last northern edifice of civilization and of jobs, heading towards our future home in a state that has been called both “Vacationland” and “a god-forsaken, fly-infested country” (Annie Proulx). The kids were asleep but we couldn’t help but let out a cheer as we crossed the border and saw the welcome sign, which reads: “Maine - The Way Life Should Be.” I felt an ache in my chest and suppressed an urge to cry, it had taken us so much to get here. Years of dreaming and planning and postponing, coming to visit and hating to leave, working on the boat so that it would sell, holding on with our teeth through the process of selling, then packing, cutting ties, driving so far. We had made it all this way, one step and one mile at a time. We wondered if this place would be kind to us. And we wondered if the luck that had brought us to this point was self-made, pure luck, or fate. You never can look far enough down the road to know for sure whether something can be called good or bad, but it does feel good, if even for a moment, to believe you can control your destiny by choosing your place on the map and getting there.

Arriving in the countryside of Northern Maine in summer is like being heralded with a blast of angel trumpets. Golden sun and swaying leafy green trees. Warm country roads lined with cicadas and singing birds. As we rolled up to the home of Zach’s parents, I opened the double doors in their wooden fence and we drove into the front yard. Jack and Pat walked out to meet us, quietly grinning, followed by Rachel, Aaron, Gryphon, and Nikita (the dog). We stood with the Nobels’ welcome party in the yard for a long time, hugging and talking. Then we went inside and gave everyone a taste of California - Madera figs and Humboldt Fog cheese – we had transported from Ithaca.

Whereas our two weeks Ithaca passed by in a flash, our first week in Maine was so long that by the end we felt like we had been here for at least a month. Sorting through the pile of bills forwarded from Berkeley, trying to figure out how to make the trailer liveable, trying to memorize the names of our new townsfolk, starting the kids in Montessori our 3^rd day after arrival. But we also began enjoying ourselves right away, running around in the huge green yard, eating out of the garden, swimming in the lake, pushing the kids in a swing in the barn, and enjoying Meme’s endless supply and variety of cookies. In the evenings, we share meals with Zach’s parents, and with Laura and Rachel’s families each weekend. The kids are off and running with their rediscovered cousins and the family is restructuring itself into one large, layered unit. This big house has expands to fit however many children come to play or sleep under its eaves. The barn has expanded to fit the uhaul truck full of boxes Zach ferried up from Portland on Friday. And Jack and Pat have made room for us in their lives, inviting us to stay as long as we need. Like their house, generous and expansive.

Up the road is a farm and horse ranch. I inquired there about lessons and began my first yesterday. It had been at least 17 years but the muscle memory was still there, if a little rusty. Jonah got a chance to do a short ride; if he expresses interest, I may give him a few more, though it will be a long time before he’ll be able to control the horse on his own. After work, Zach and Jonah went out in the canoe and returned with a 13” fish for dinner. This morning, with the kids in school, Zach and I went running. All in all, it’s every bit the healthier and more active country life we had imagined. When we breathe in, there’s no trace of smog. The water is plentiful and tastes wonderful. There’s no commute to work (for now). And with the grandparents around nightly and even more family on weekends, Rachel can slip away for a swim, I can slip out into the yard to fiddle under the trees, or Aaron can take some time for himself on the computer. Someone is always around to keep an eye on the kids.