I was filled with hope as we entered Maine. It felt like a sort of quiet homecoming, returning to the state where my father was born and raised. There was a joy in my heart for the dream that I would find myself, my peace, here.
My father was full of wisdom and dry humor. I suppose I had visions that I’d hear that same accent mixed with his quick wit and feel the comfort that only a father can provide to his little girl.
You’re the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold
You’re daddy’s little girl to have and to hold.
With social distancing, I really barely heard the accent I longed for, instead hearing his voice in my mind. My father had all sorts of advice and aspirations for my future. In a cherished audiotape my parents sent me my first year at college “from” my favorite talking reindeer, Beau and Tinsel, my father told me I’d be a famous mathematician one day. I’m not sure if I quite live up the that one, but I’m not shabby at math and I married a walking calculator, so there’s that. While I was studying to become a psychologist and would read my assignments to him, he declared that I would become an author someday, marrying my love for the craft with my interest in and compassion for people. There’s also the advice I remember hearing from the time I was in elementary school, walking around the corner from the school in the afternoon to find my father ready to listen as he chauffeured me home. Find something you love to do and make it into a career; that’s the way to avoid having just a “job” and a way to be truly happy.
My father and I shared a verocious love of reading. During one vacation, we took turns interrupting each other during the last few pages of each book and it became a humorous family tradition that still causes me to search out solitude to finish any book.
It’s hard to put into the words the personal transformation that has occurred while we’ve been here, communing with some of the most beautiful parts of nature. I’ve always been a Type A personality, and when I decide I want something, I go after it with a relentless energy. In the early days, John called this my “midnight cleaning” side as I could decide I wanted a clean bathroom in the middle of the night and he’d find me scrubbing the tub (or get roped into helping). This can be great when you are going after a specific goal, but it easily gets out of hand as more responsibilities are piled high. Those midnight bursts of energy became burned out sputters to finish all the tasks on my lengthy self-imposed to do list.
I didn’t know how to be quiet with myself. For years, I made excuses that just “being,” didn’t feel worthy of my time. And I valued my time so very much. But when I faced my own demons, I realized that spending quiet time wasn’t a waste, it was something I didn’t know how to do. I’d tried meditating and all sorts of activities to quiet myself in the past, but despite recommending these activities to clients, I just couldn’t get on board with them. I ended up feeling angry. I’ve come to realize that I was simply angry at myself for not being able to succeed in this area. So I’ve spent my time in Maine teaching myself to relax and found that it’s an immeasurable gift. I’m now meditating everyday and learning my cues. Cues for when I’m beginning to feel stress or anxiety so I can make adjustments. Cues for when I don’t honor myself and my voice. And even cues for hunger and fullness. It’s all a work in progress, but my favorite moments have been meditating on the beautiful coastline in Acadia. It’s an image of me at peace with myself that I will carry forward with me always.
Bangor
My father grew up in Bangor, so a survey of his hometown was high on my list of activities while in Maine. Our campground was less than an hour from Bangor, so we were able to head over three times during our stay.
The only time that I remember visiting Maine during my childhood was a family road trip when I was a pre-teen. I remember my father’s delight at being able to show me Stephen King’s house; at the time, I hadn’t yet read any of his works. This time around, I was the one “geeking out,” taking my photo in front of the famous author’s summer home.
Stephen King was born in Portland, Maine in 1947. He’s moved a lot throughout his life, mostly residing in Maine, although he’s called IndIana, Connecticut, Colorado, and even England his home. We can see the shadows of his life experiences in the stories he crafts. I believe this is what makes his stories so frightening to me. It’s not the “scary stuff” we have become accustomed to hearing about on the news. His stories reside in this gentle balance between the possible and fantastical, making us afraid of the unknowns we have never ventured to imagine in our own lives. In 1980, the year of my birth, King purchased his Bangor residence. He now summers in Maine, splitting his time between the Bangor home and a home in Center Lovell. He spends the rest of the year in sunny Florida, seeming to share my father’s sentiment that Maine is nice, but sunshine is better during the bone chilling winter months.
We drove by my aunt and uncle’s house, but didn’t ring the bell, figuring it would be too awkward to randomly appear on a long lost relative’s doorstep in the middle of a pandemic. It wasn’t the house I remembered from my previous trip, but that could be from a move or just my fuzzy memory.
We drove by the famous Paul Bunyan statue, but decided not to stop. John and the girls had never heard of Paul Bunyan, so I regaled them with tale tales of his superhuman strength, lumberjack prowess, and trusty friend, Bane the Blue Ox.
After a bit of internet sleuthing, I deduced the present day location of my father’s high school. There is only one public high school in Bangor. The Bangor public high school for boys was founded in 1835 with an adjacent school for girls added in 1838. They consolidated into one co-ed school in 1864 and remained in this building until a massive fire burned it down in 1911. It’s replacement, completed in 1913, resides on Harlow St nestled beside the public library. While the public library is still housed in the same building, the school moved on to its present day location to accommodate the growing number of students in 1964, well after my father’s high school graduation. My father had dreams to go to West Point, but a childhood injury left his hearing lacking causing him to fail the medical portion of the entrance requirements. It must have been so difficult to work so hard in ROTC and have his dreams crushed in this way. He still chose a military life which ended after pneumonia, unattended for months, caused irreparable damage to his lungs and a permanent disability. A year in a military hospital, struggling to breathe, is a long time to be quiet with oneself and reimagine one’s life. While inside this building, his high school, my father didn’t know all the twists and turns of his life. The hallowed halls that my father traversed have been converted into apartments. It was thrilling staring at a place I know my father stood as he dreamed of his future while imaging a new future for myself.
Blueberries
Maine is home to the country’s largest source of blueberries, spanning 44,000 acres. The wild blueberry is one of only four fruit crops native to North America. Native Americans encouraged regrowth by periodically burning the crop. Today, careful pruning is necessary and only half of the blueberry bushes can be harvested in any given year.
We visited the Treworgy Family Orchards which is located in Levant, just a few minutes outside Bangor. The farm is situated beautifully with views of the mountains in the distance as you pick glorious, thumb-sized blueberries whose juicy insides pop into a sweet explosion in your mouth. There are banyard animals, including sheep, goats and some free range chickens. The farm markets it’s adorable baby goats well, advertising “baby goat cuddles.” While we never paid for the whole cuddle experience, baby goat petting and nibbles stole our hearts.
We also picked raspberries in the field across the street. The girls left, bellies full, and we had still managed to pick enough berries for pies and snacking. The farm also touts a cafe and ice cream for those who are not stuffed from the berries. We enjoyed our time there so much that we returned the following weekend to pick more berries and visit with the goats.
Although often overlooked due to its proximity to better known Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, Bangor is a lovely small town with access to lakes and Maine’s iconic scenery.