Maine Attraction--part I

I've been neglecting my blog, and I feel badly about it. It's been a busy month, with school wrapping up for both of my children and for me. Yes, I've finally completed my MFA after three and a half fulfilling years, and I finished with a bang, if I may say so myself: 4.0 grade average and a Best Thesis Award to add to my resume. *Sigh*

Okay, enough basking. In the meantime, I've also begun a new gig as a freelance editor, in addition to attempting to carve out time for revisions on two novels, so needless to say, time has been of the essence.

But I hate to ignore my faithful readers. So as an interlude of sorts, I'll be posting some of my graduate school writings over the next couple of weeks for your reading enjoyment. And so, without further ado:

MAINE ATTRACTION (part 1 of 3)

by

Sue Carr

Anyone familiar with the state of Maine will tell you that it’s a haven for outdoor enthusiasts. Fishing, hiking, skiing, canoeing, bird watching, snowmobiling – it’s all there in the unspoiled majesty of the secluded wilderness.

Anyone familiar with me will tell you I’m not an outdoorsy girl.  

But when my husband, Dave, suggested a quiet week at the lakefront cabin where he vacationed as a child, I didn’t hesitate. After all, I loved watching Northern Exposure, and dreamed of visiting Alaska. From what I understood of it, Maine was a closer, slightly more densely populated version of Alaska. More importantly, I wanted to see a moose.

Don’t ask me why a decidedly non-outdoorsy girl has a thing for moose. Perhaps it’s the manifestation of a suppressed desire to commune with nature. Perhaps it stems from my love of our plush honeymoon accommodations at Disney’s Wilderness Lodge, decorated with carvings of northwest wildlife in the safe, civilized metropolis of Orlando. Or perhaps it’s sheer marketing prowess. Among the moose accoutrements I’ve been enticed to purchase over the years are a moose “welcome” sign, moose bedding, even a moose incense burner.

The idea of seeing a moose in the wild so thrilled me, in fact, that I apparently tuned out any further description my husband gave of this cabin in Maine.

We departed the Philadelphia suburbs before sunrise in mid-August. The five of us – Dave, his parents, his brother Scott and me – crammed into my in-laws’ early-90’s Chevy Cavalier for the ten hour drive. Being the smallest in our party, I took the “hump seat” sandwiched between my mother-in-law and husband in the back. Not a bad position for the first five hours or so, but after about seven, my ankles stiffened from trying not to infringe on anyone’s floor space, and my butt ached from hours in a seat not actually intended for human use. The thought of relaxing by the water at our lakeside cottage was all that kept me from jamming a heel into my father-in-law’s back when he passed yet another gas station in his quest to find gas a couple cents cheaper further up the road while the gas gauge flirted with “E.”

We approached Maine through the tumbling green peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountain range under unblemished skies. As we neared Howard Pond, we passed signs for the Sunday River Ski Resort. I daydreamed about our cabin nestled in ski resort country. Maybe there would be trails leading over to the resort, where we could hit tennis balls or do some sightseeing. Maybe we could make this a regular thing, summering in Maine for several weeks each year.

But we kept driving farther and farther from Sunday River, as signs of life became scarce. Every few minutes a careening logging truck would practically blow us off the road like a miniature clown car in a cartoon, but otherwise we passed no one.

Finally we turned onto the semi-paved road that snaked sharply upward into the dense woods. As we turned, we passed a forlorn clapboard structure resting by the side of the mountain advertising stamps and live bait. This, Dave informed me, was the only source of essentials for at least ten miles.

Surely he was exaggerating.

The exhausted Cavalier churned its way up through the forest on an ever-narrowing path. As we jostled up the road, I gazed at one lovely lake house after another, waiting for my father-in-law to pull over and announce that we had arrived.  Just as I thought the car might finally peter out, he veered into a patch of packed dirt outside a small brown cottage that resembled a child’s playhouse – and by “resembled” I mean “was approximately the size of.” This couldn’t be it.

I pried myself from the back seat, arched my stiff, aching back, and surveyed our lodgings. The cabin clung to a steep hillside amid the dappled sunlight of the forest. As we yanked our bags from the trunk, my mother-in-law pointed out places where this one twisted his ankle and that one got in trouble for hitting baseballs into the lake.

Built by a friend of the family back when people still built homes with their own two hands, the cottage felt like a playhouse even from the inside. The plank walls offered shelter from the elements, but no insulation (which is why, Dave explained, we visited in August and not October). The miniature kitchen could comfortably hold a person and a half. The bedroom with its gray woolen blankets held two twin beds in an “L.” The living area included a small table, low bookcases packed with Agatha Christie novels, and padded benches along two walls by the fireplace that doubled as twin beds. The scent of long-burning wood fires permeated every fiber of the cabin. I inhaled deeply. It was cute. Cozy. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Dave must have recognized the pained expression on my face, and pointed me to the bathroom. Thankfully the cabin had at least this amenity. I shut myself in, thankful for the privacy even if only for a few minutes. But I couldn’t sit down until I carefully inspected every crevice and beam for black widows, as anyone should in such situations. Surprisingly, I found none.

When I came out, I sat by Dave on the bench. “There’s no shower,” I pointed out.

“Right. I told you that.”

“You said there was a pump that brought water up from the lake.”

“Yeah, for the toilet and the sinks. I told you we could bathe in the lake.”

“You said we could.” I poked him in the shoulder. “You didn’t say we had to.”

He shrugged and stood up. “You heard what you wanted to hear.”

I followed him onto the narrow screened porch at the back of the cabin. My bathtub, a.k.a. Howard Pond, filled the valley before us. The calm pool of blue was more of a lake than a pond, truth be told. At least half-a-dozen hummingbird feeders dangled outside, decorating the view like jewels on a necklace. Several of the tiny birds hovered, sucking the sweet nectar left by our host. In the silence we could hear the buzz of their wings. I had never seen these delicate birds up close. When I stood next to the screen, I could feel the almost imperceptible breeze from their blurred wings. I found myself watching them fly, hover, drink, back up, fly, hover, drink. This wasn't the wildlife I had come to see, but they were intriguing. Fly, hover, drink. Fly, hover, drink.

Okay, maybe not that intriguing.

Unfortunately, the hummingbirds proved to be the main entertainment. We had no television (not that there would have been cable anyway), no internet (or anything resembling electronics aside from the coffee pot), and no cell phone coverage (although we did have a land-line telephone, the kind with a cord like the one I recently spotted at the Pittsburgh History Museum).

There weren’t even any moose grazing nearby.

We settled onto the porch to gaze on the still, blue lake. “So, what should we do?” I asked. Any vacation I had taken to that point involved the doing of something at any given moment – sightseeing, dining, amusement park thrill-seeking – at the very least, shopping.

Dave smirked. “This.” He sank further into his chair and sighed.

After about fifteen minutes of glancing from the hummingbirds to my family, waiting for anyone to do anything, I went inside. I pulled Murder on the Orient Express from a shelf, curled onto a bench, and dove in. I could do nothing for one day.

Eating the True Self Berry

During a freewrite in class the other day, I was reminded of a book I recently read to my daughter in which the main character has access to “true self” berries. When eaten, this miraculous fruit will reveal your true self, stripped of any pretense or deceptive self-image. When the villain of the story partakes of the berry, she turns into a warty toad, the personification of her slimy, detestable personality. The heroine, however, eats the berry to regain her wings and become the fairy she is meant to be. It occurred to me that most—if not all—of us could benefit from this amazing fruit. For how many of us fully recognize our true selves?

I thought of this story because, during this freewrite exercise, we were asked to meditate and imagine ourselves in a beautiful and peaceful place. I immediately pictured myself in Nova Scotia, sitting on the pier in Pictou, waves lapping at my feet, the clear blue sky arching overhead, and a colorful, bustling fishing village surrounding me. I remember sitting alone on a bench with the breeze tousling my hair, writing in my journal. What I find interesting in remembering this place as a peaceful one, though, is that I wasn’t happy in that moment. In fact, I was crying.

At that point, I was almost halfway through a 14-day field seminar with other graduate students from Chatham University. The trip was lovely, filled with exploration, natural beauty, and camaraderie. But my husband of almost 14 years (at the time) and my two children (6 and 2 at the time) were 2,000 miles away visiting my in-laws in Florida. And I missed them. Terribly. The sound of two toddlers frolicking behind me on the pier only magnified the hole in my soul at that moment, expanding it to a gulf, an un-crossable canyon.  

So how could this moment bring me anything close to peace? Because it was one of those moments that brings life into perfect clarity. During that trip, I had a rare opportunity to focus on me—my writing, my thoughts, my work as an artist—and nothing else. For fourteen days I didn’t have to wipe a face, scrub a toilet, answer an e-mail, or wash anyone else’s clothes. I felt, for the first time in a long, long time, that I could exist independently my traditional roles—mother, wife, daughter—because the people who defined me in those roles weren’t around to define me. I defined myself. It felt empowering.

And yet, in defining myself, I came to the critical realization that these roles are as integral to me as a heart is to a body. While there is a part of me that is only me—myself, my thoughts and the words I craft from those thoughts—that part of me is empty without those other roles. Who am I without the affection and love of my children? Without the support and guidance of my parents? Without the selfless and seemingly endless love of my husband? Without these influences, these roles, I am an entirely different person, someone other than my true self. And that’s something I would never want to be.