In-town love affair
I love my little town. Twice a day we have a traffic cop that directs the cars through a busy intersection in the village, helping the backpack-laden middle school kids safely cross, and allowing vehicles a fair chance at turning left. The lines of cars snake in three directions, as far as the eye can see, but nobody honks. We have an ice cream shop that those same backpack-laden kids can walk to after school, heady with newly gained independence. After wiping their sticky mouths on their sleeves, the library next door makes a good homework stop, extending those carefree hours with friends, exploring those gawky years in the comfort of the familiar hug of a safe place .
I love my little town, though by Maine standards, it’s not that little. In fact, many Mainers (including, until more recently, my husband) consider my town more of an extension of Massachusetts than part of Maine; but if that’s what we were, we wouldn’t get to complain about Massachusetts drivers, or the tourists that flood our beaches in an ever-lengthening season, or play the license plate game to see if any of the cars at the stop light actually have Maine plates. My husband has the street cred to back up his complaints: he grew up near Augusta, but I grew up in Central New York, and after fifteen years of Maine living- first in Auburn, then Turner, then Lyman and now, York (not to mention spending every summer vacation of my 42 years in New Harbor), I also feel entitled to complain about these invaders, knowing full well I was once one of them. We have more out of state transplants than many Maine towns, but those of us who are here feel more than fortunate to be raising the next generation of Mainers. We are here by choice, and often talk of pinching ourselves to remind us that it’s real, and how lucky we are to be in this great state.
I love my little town. Every day when I leave my house I see beautiful marshland hosting great blue herons, egrets, geese, osprey, and a pair of nesting bald eagles. As I walk, I smell the briny tidal flats, then, at the harbor, bait. The gasoline from the lobster boats mingles with the scent of fabric softener that the mist carries through the air from a house on Pine Island. Every morning of every season, this walk looks different. The light, the water, the foliage, the scents, are an ever-changing kaleidoscope. I will never tire of it. Pick-up trucks rumble by with every type of cargo imaginable: lobster traps, bait barrels, ladders, buckets, roofing shingles and lots of tractors, setting about the business of taking care of the lawns and gardens of summer people and locals alike. I love the bustle of the active people- the doers, the hum that is the heartbeat of the town. There is always someone I know at the grocery store, and I have, literally, borrowed a cup of sugar from my neighbor. Perhaps these traits are ubiquitous to small town America, but after extensive travel, I am confident there is no place else in the world with the feel, the aroma, the scenery, the history and the singularly extraordinary feeling Maine evokes.
So don’t lump us in with Massachusetts, Mainers from the north. I guarantee, as we drive over the Piscataqua Bridge leaving New Hampshire behind, we from the southern tip breathe that same sigh of relief as you do. We are home and we are proud and grateful to be here.