After gifted days of warmth and sun, today dawns gray. We are heading south in search of the “real” Maine—the Maine that doesn’t cater to the summer people.  Driving back roads we find it in Union, and again in Waldoboro.  I want to stop in each town and take every side road to search out hidden treasures, but we continue to barrel down the narrow two-lane highway.  Twisting. Turning. Dipping. Climbing.  I am content to sit in the passenger seat and let Michael take me where he may, till we pass through Friendship without blinking an eye.

Checking Out Friendship

“Why don’t we drive down that way for awhile?” I ask, thinking that Christina’s World can wait just a wee bit longer;  Cushing and the Olson House of Andrew Wyeth are only bare minutes away.

We turn left on a whim and dead end at a small parking area above the town docks; there are many, and they are all busy. This is a true working harbor—not a pleasure boat in sight. Lobster boats chug out to check on their catch. Trucks back down the long docks.  Stop.  Drive forward, making room for another truck and then backup again. As we pick our way along the wide-planked, wide-slitted dock  I hold my camera tight, knowing that if it slips from my grasp, it is lost forever.

I search for a place to sit and watch but each space has its purpose; there is no room for the frivolous pursuit of just being. Barnacle clad lobster traps are piled everywhere.  On the docks, in the yards, on barges and on boats.  Ropes are thrown and curled in clusters. I feel an intruder; far from home, not even being able to buy a lobster to justify our presence.

We turn from the docks and explore a bit more till we head back to our car.  Skirting the edge of a garden that lies close to the road, Michael jumps back. A snake has crossed his path and the unexpectedness of it in this place has startled him—it would have given me a heart attack.

I suggest we put the top of the car down before we proceed to Cushing. Rain in the forecast or not, I want to inhale this day.

Antiques

On our way out of town an antique store beckons. Michael disappears while I browse.  There is a large scale replica of a four-masted square-rigger in the window.  With its dust and dirt, torn and tattered sails, lines and rigging in shreds, it looks lost; a derelict. In my eyes, it grows exponentially to full size, abandoned and left to the fate of the howling wind and lashing sea. I could spin stories around the tortured fate of this desolate ship and the reasons why it sits here in its lonely, bleak, and empty state.

Some things call to you; this sad and gloomy old ship reaches out and grabs me.  I want to possess it, but there is no way, and I can only imagine the look on Michael’s face as I show him my prize.

I settle for a few more dishes. Very small dishes.

8/22/2014 10:08:40 PM