We had explored every peninsula along the coast of Maine. It took 10 years. And in 1995, we decided to move there. We looked at homes on the coast. We worked with a dental business consultant to find a practice. The one we liked was in Union, a good 30-minute drive from our coastal home picks. That was on a good day when it wouldn’t be raining, snowing, or icing up. We were continuing the process, certain that a practice would open closer to the coast. Why move to Maine if we weren’t on rocky shores?
GB ad I loved everything about Maine. I even loved the icy cold winters, but GB whined about them. He’s not a cold weather person. I am. We loved the small towns, the 19th century atmosphere; the work ethic, the ocean, rivers, reversing tides, inlets, bays, boats, ferries; proximity to Boston or New York; the lobster, oh my God, the lobster. Most of all, we loved the blueberry pies with their fresh picked blueberries piled high in their flaky pie shell and topped with fresh whipped cream. I loved the fact that I could be a sturdy woman in Maine. Skinniness was not a desired value. Food came from the sea, a bog, a glacial outwash plain (yes, I Googled that because I was going to call it a moraine), or a farm. True, processed junk was all around us, but the easiest way of eating was to simply visit a lobster pound and chow down. One year, I spent an entire two weeks eating nothing but lobster for all noon and evening meals. I thought I’d tire of it, but I didn’t. GB, not a lobster fan, happily sought out his beloved cheeseburgers.
The first time I ever went to Maine was with a friend. Both of us were backroads fans and we became lost almost immediately after landing in Bangor. We found our way to Rockport, a village south of Camden. Rockport is adorably nestled in the Rockport Bay, a small bay that hides itself within the Penobscot Bay. I stood in the center of the shoreline where I could have a panoramic view of the bay, the shingle-styled houses, the docks. and the boats. My body enveloped by the brisk sea breeze, the sweet smell of the ocean and the sounds of waves crashing against the shore. I had been transported into a Wyeth family painting. I had fallen in love with place, time, history, and a culture completely foreign to a high plains cowgirl like myself.
Maine has 3,478 miles of coastline. There are a gazillion bays, inlets, rivers that, as a native Coloradoan, would look like a lake. The geography informs life in Maine. It cannot be ignored. Not for a minute. That’s one of the oddities of the region. It sustains shipping, ship building, fishing, forestry, and farming. Now this is my opinion and I have no facts upon which to base this, that most places ignore their geographical heritage. In Colorado, our economy was traditionally based in ranching, farming, mining. No longer. It’s tech and research. And tourism. But my point is that to sustain our growing population, we diversified our economy. Maine was not a growth state in the 1990’s but today is.
When I returned home from my first Maine trip, I explained to GB that he had to go with me the following summer. That summer was followed by the next spring, the next winter, the next autumn. We spent a Fourth of July sitting on a beach in New Harbor, just a rock skip to Monhegan Island. We discovered the most delightful Island across from Stonington. Isle au Haut housed a lighthouse converted to a small Inn, no restaurants, and a few hundred year-round residents. The only way there was a small mail boat that left Stonington once a day. I’ve always believed that to get to anywhere magical, it should take at least two days from the time of landing. And Isle au Haut was no exception to the rule. Landing in Bangor, renting a car and driving down the Blue Hill Peninsula to Stonington took the first day. The next morning, we’d catch the mail boat to Isle au Haut, a tiny island full of big surprises: wild blueberry bushes, coastal forests, a small town with a general store and a library and one Inn located in a former lighthouse. A rarely visited part of Acadia National Park sits within the borders of Isle au Haut. During our first visit, GB and I hiked through the hilly, dense, dark forest. We spotted a grassy spot to eat the lunch, lovingly and deliciously packed by the chef at the Inn. After lunch, I laid back and fell deeply asleep. GB leafed through the deep pine needles, eventually finding a fox skull which he packed and brought home to supplement his personal collection of dinosaur bones and diverse skulls. Once again, I was enveloped by the smells of the ocean, of the mossy, piney scented air of the hillside. After our first visit to Isle au Haut, we returned two more times, bringing some friends with us on the third trip. Each visit was more deeply satisfying than the previous. And, on the third, GB and I bunked in the attic room. The room had two small windows, one overlooking the old lighthouse and the rocky coast beneath it. A nor’easter had been predicted and as we fell asleep, the winds began to howl, and the rain began to pummel the roof. I looked out the little window and through the lighthouse warning lights could see the waves crashing beneath us. It was glorious. One of the many moments in my life when the universe would remind me of my own smallness and insignificance. But how lucky was I to see this? To feel the beautiful rocking world around me?
Each year, we brought a little bit of Maine home with us. A large urn sits on our terrace. A small pine needle sachet still sits next to my bed and, imagine, after all these years its aroma remains pungent. I press it, lift it to my nose, close my eyes and think of Maine, the beautiful dream that was lost on April 13, 1995.
That was the day my brother, Steve, died. That was the day I knew I wouldn’t be able to leave Denver because my parents would have no one. My father would live fourteen more years and my mother another twenty-one. In those years, I learned the strictures enforced by duty. It didn’t make me angry or resentful, but it was sad. I had lost my brother, my childhood, and my future all in one day. No one knew me like Steve did. No one made me laugh harder, play rougher, gross out grossier than Steve. And no one made him laugh and pound the table like I did. He and I shared a sign language of our own. I could make a particular movement of my wrist and he’d start laughing. I could announce a new edition of a Charlost and Barnyard story (parodies of our parents, Charlotte and Bernard) and he’d start howling. He couldn’t wait to hear what I’d write. I couldn’t wait for him to start laughing.
So, GB and I said good-bye to Maine. He closed his solo practice and joined Cody Dental, a premier fee-for- service boutique dental practice. I left the Diana Price Fish Foundation and moved to the Jewish Community Center as Director of Development and Marketing. I then changed course and took a position as Executive Director at Howard Dental, a nonprofit clinic treating patients with HIV/AIDS. It was there that I did the best work of my career.
There has always been a part of me that I left in Maine. To this day, I check real estate listings along the coast. I sometimes look at Maine ski conditions. I daydream I’m there, sitting in the Rockport Harbor watching small fishing boats come and go. I don’t begrudge my life. Greater tragedies fell people every day. But damn. Still. It’s just one of those things I miss.
Isle au Haut. Pic not by us.
Air. 
Leave a comment