You Are Not Here: It's Not Over Yet, #2
Submitted by Eva Murray on Wed, 09/19/2007 - 7:57pm.
September 19, 2007
If you are not here, you might wish that you were.
If you are not in Maine this middle part of September, if you have left already, or are trapped indoors in a classroom or an office, you might have cause to wonder if perhaps next year, you might take your vacation at another time. Perhaps not mid-summer. Perhaps September.
I like to write, from time to time, in the "old style" exemplified by Jim Parker of Spruce Head years ago with his "if you can't handle winter, you don't deserve summer," or some such thing. I enjoy the task of the curmudgeon sometimes, railing against the idiocy of "view-people" (those who think it wise to spend a million dollars to move a power line, just to improve their scan of the seashore,) or the "simple-life" crowd, who get into their heads that twelve months in Midcoast Maine is essentially twelve months of summer vacation and gee, aren't we just so lucky. Usually I am inclined to make fun. Not today. Lucky, indeed, are we.
In digging my few potatoes for example, with brilliant sunshine, the faintest breeze, the warm smell of the ground, I thought I could dig twenty acres of potatoes singlehandedly and like it. There is too darned little of agriculture in my life at this point, and too much paperwork, and I never claimed to be a farmer anyway (surely not, living among fishermen, for a farmer is a man who cannot row decently,) but on days like this one might be easily tempted to that life. The garden, pathetic as it appears in the rain and fog with its grassy disorder and visible neglect, becomes a visual feast of nasturtium and calendula; even the huge old gone-by radishes flower. It is filled with crickets, small birds, butterflies, and the compost supports a mouse or two. That's alright.
A walk down the road (typically a behavior of visitors and women; island men and children do not walk, as a rule. If you see a lobsterman on foot, you are inclined to inquire just where it is he broke down, and is a tow or a jump start in order?) Ah, where was I? A walk means breathing in the scent of apples, for Matinicus is covered with apple trees, and a few of those are even edible. That fragrance is one of those things you'd never think about until once again, in the early fall, that walk to the post office and …ah! Apples! Oh, how you loved that last year, and remember.
Of course, you have to be here. Likewise, to relish the scent, as one walks to the mail, of those first few wood fires, the change in the air with the cold from the northwest, the subtle change in the smell of the ocean itself. Am I crazy? Does this really happen?
In the summer, there's no time to stop in at a friend's house for coffee; it's all about work. The summer visitor's stereotype of a "peaceful" existence is almost believable though, on days like this. This is when there is nothing to be had but gratitude for Maine. I, for one, will admit the same in public.
You miss the best of the year, coming for your week in the summer. You want to eat lobster? You can do that anytime. You want to go kayaking? The mornings of September are as calm, assuming nothing roiling in the tropics has come ahead, but the fog is far less a menace. If you're even considering Camden, Monhegan, Bar Harbor…come now. Much better. You might even get a parking space. The chowder tastes better when the evening is chilly. The monarchs are ganging up and packing for their southbound trip. Right now, as I sit here looking out my north-facing window, there is not a breath of wind, and that's exceedingly rare for a sunny day on Matinicus (or anywhere surrounded by sea.) I need to go outside.
You might endeavor to do likewise.
Eva Murray lives on Matinicus Island, where she arrived in 1987 as the teacher for the one-room school and expected to stay for one year.
If you are not here, you might wish that you were.
If you are not in Maine this middle part of September, if you have left already, or are trapped indoors in a classroom or an office, you might have cause to wonder if perhaps next year, you might take your vacation at another time. Perhaps not mid-summer. Perhaps September.
I like to write, from time to time, in the "old style" exemplified by Jim Parker of Spruce Head years ago with his "if you can't handle winter, you don't deserve summer," or some such thing. I enjoy the task of the curmudgeon sometimes, railing against the idiocy of "view-people" (those who think it wise to spend a million dollars to move a power line, just to improve their scan of the seashore,) or the "simple-life" crowd, who get into their heads that twelve months in Midcoast Maine is essentially twelve months of summer vacation and gee, aren't we just so lucky. Usually I am inclined to make fun. Not today. Lucky, indeed, are we.
In digging my few potatoes for example, with brilliant sunshine, the faintest breeze, the warm smell of the ground, I thought I could dig twenty acres of potatoes singlehandedly and like it. There is too darned little of agriculture in my life at this point, and too much paperwork, and I never claimed to be a farmer anyway (surely not, living among fishermen, for a farmer is a man who cannot row decently,) but on days like this one might be easily tempted to that life. The garden, pathetic as it appears in the rain and fog with its grassy disorder and visible neglect, becomes a visual feast of nasturtium and calendula; even the huge old gone-by radishes flower. It is filled with crickets, small birds, butterflies, and the compost supports a mouse or two. That's alright.
A walk down the road (typically a behavior of visitors and women; island men and children do not walk, as a rule. If you see a lobsterman on foot, you are inclined to inquire just where it is he broke down, and is a tow or a jump start in order?) Ah, where was I? A walk means breathing in the scent of apples, for Matinicus is covered with apple trees, and a few of those are even edible. That fragrance is one of those things you'd never think about until once again, in the early fall, that walk to the post office and …ah! Apples! Oh, how you loved that last year, and remember.
Of course, you have to be here. Likewise, to relish the scent, as one walks to the mail, of those first few wood fires, the change in the air with the cold from the northwest, the subtle change in the smell of the ocean itself. Am I crazy? Does this really happen?
In the summer, there's no time to stop in at a friend's house for coffee; it's all about work. The summer visitor's stereotype of a "peaceful" existence is almost believable though, on days like this. This is when there is nothing to be had but gratitude for Maine. I, for one, will admit the same in public.
You miss the best of the year, coming for your week in the summer. You want to eat lobster? You can do that anytime. You want to go kayaking? The mornings of September are as calm, assuming nothing roiling in the tropics has come ahead, but the fog is far less a menace. If you're even considering Camden, Monhegan, Bar Harbor…come now. Much better. You might even get a parking space. The chowder tastes better when the evening is chilly. The monarchs are ganging up and packing for their southbound trip. Right now, as I sit here looking out my north-facing window, there is not a breath of wind, and that's exceedingly rare for a sunny day on Matinicus (or anywhere surrounded by sea.) I need to go outside.
You might endeavor to do likewise.
Eva Murray lives on Matinicus Island, where she arrived in 1987 as the teacher for the one-room school and expected to stay for one year.
The views expressed on this Web site are those of the authors alone and do not necessarily represent the views of Down East Enterprise or its employees.
- Eva Murray
- Login or register to post comments
