You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Measures will too often be decided according to their probable effect, not on the national prosperity and happiness, but on the prejudices, interests and pursuits of the governments and people of the individual States. … The great interests of the nation have suffered … from an undue attention to the local prejudices, interests and views of the particular States.
James Madison in Federalist No. 46
Back in high school, my best friend’s mom was buddies with a Greek neighbor who used to proclaim, “Athens! She is beautiful! The rest of the country?” A spitting sound I could never ever spell out accompanied by the open palms of both hands coming down side by side from overhead.
His other best friend was Greek, too. A kind of philosopher, in fact.
My civics teacher was Greek, as was the drama and debate coach.
In college, a landmark restaurant just off campus passed into a new generation much the way the one in my fictional Daffodil did. Somehow, the details stayed vaguely with me.
Off in the Pacific Northwest, I became fond of souvlaki and spanakopita on our forays to the University District of Seattle.
On my return to Ohio, there was a delightful Greek bakery in a small storefront on a quiet residential street six or seven blocks east of our house.
In Baltimore, “All the pizza’s made by Greeks,” seemed wrong – where were the Italians? And out on the road, “All the diners are owned by Greeks.” Little did I know about flatbreads.
In New Hampshire, the Athens restaurant in downtown Manchester – popular but, to my senses, bland and tired – in contrast to one of my favorite takeout places where we ordered for the office – the menu that introduced me to gyros.
Add to that the cathedral’s big Glendi, which sent food to the newsroom in gratitude for our coverage, or the little frame St. Nicholas I’d pass on one route to and from the paper.
One of our older coworkers, a photo lab tech, was Greek – kind and smiling, though I got to know little else.
A sharp-tongued but very competent colleague in the composing room was also Greek. Named Pericles after his grandfather, though it was shortened for us.
All of this was fleeting and fragmentary but came together in Dover and its annual, free-admission Greek festival.
And then confirmed at Davos in Watertown Square, Massachusetts, a block down the street from our weekly choir practice. The food was great, though run by Hispanics.
Now I can tell you there are Greek-Americans almost everywhere. Opa!
The 135-foot-high lighthouse, the tallest in New England, sits remotely on a treacherous, tiny island seven miles off the coast in York, Maine.
The rocky outcropping was the site of a 1710 shipwreck that left the stranded sailors resorting to cannibalism to survive the winter before their rescue.
The current cylindrical tower was built in 1855 after earlier ones had been washed away.
As one of the most remote lighthouses in New England, it has a wild history.
The first year I witnessed the gardener in our household sprout and then transplant a dozen or so varieties of tomatoes, I was perplexed. Foolish me, I thought tomatoes were pretty interchangeable. Not so by the end of summer, when I had discovered how much each variety had its own identity. Some ripened earlier than others, a major consideration in our short growing season. Some were firmer while others were juicier. Each variety matured in its own size and shape. Trying to describe the range of flavors could soon sound like a wine tasting commentary. So far, we’ve had nothing that has delivered a hint of slightly warm asphalt, which seemed to be a plus for one wine critic. We’ll save you our own take.
Also important to us is disease and blight resistance. New England can be a difficult region for tomato growers.
Here’s a sampling of what we’ve cultivated, eaten, and even dried, canned, or bagged frozen.
And we haven’t even touched on some fine “black” tomatoes.
Food truck, Belfast, Maine
One of my colleagues at the New Hampshire Sunday News insisted that Metalious was a much better writer than the tabloid image that plagued her and her notorious book.
After reading Peyton Place, I have to agree. The realities it exposed are no longer scandalous but widely acknowledged. The novel, meanwhile, is skillfully accomplished and hints at more that could have been accomplished under other conditions. She certainly understood the unspoken skeletons of northern New England as well as anyone else I could mention, and she took the risks of admitting the dark undercurrents of survival in a small town anywhere in the country.
Her personal life, on the other hand, is an American tragedy.
BOO
BEE
BOY
sleeping with the ocean
a mere foot from my head
the ship at port / anchored creaks, lines grinding / groaning
I hear the neighbors either side
Intimately
have you read
a common topic so uncommon
elsewhere
“I’m dying to be a better reader”
like digging a hole
I like going to bed
or lying on a beach
back below, in my berth
I hear steady breathing a few feet away
only a thin wall separating our heads
her boyfriend’s in crab school
yep, they giggle
unlike the couple with Southern accents
from Florida
the knitting picked up again
I’m going to sleep
[I’m falling asleep]
and so is most of the rest
finally
how many times will I be up
in the middle of the night
the head’s up on deck
I’m glad it’s not raining
or heavily foggy
though we’re sleeping at sea
it’s calmer than a water bed
creaking and thumps
more likely my neighbors
than the interplay of planks and sea
yes, somebody’s bones
now, for that damned mosquito
or some scratching overhead
who just dropped what
on the deck above me?
a shutting door
with a latch
and shuffling
who’s securing the gear
in the dusk?
what a still, calm spot she’s chosen
for the night
3:30 am, a nearly full moon
scattering sound of steady traffic
the other side of Isle au Haut
(the south)
may simply be the water motion
there’s definitely surf other side,
slight breeze, 1 mph?
to the west
can barely see Polaris
light cloud cover
only one plane overhead
on the European flight way
and the flash of a fishing boat
light array
in the gap of Deer Isle
what’s all the noise around me tonight
besides a stray cough
or zipper
are we really that restless
I have no idea what the Patriots
or Sox
did over the weekend
though they’ve been spiraling downward
light snoring in my ear last night
I had the most erotic dream
of someone who in reality was almost well
This could become obsessive.
Those of you who have constructed a house from scratch must be looking at our renovation like it’s peanuts. And, in many ways, it is. We weren’t starting with talks with an architect or even inspecting an undeveloped site beforehand. No, that must be truly thrilling. There’d be none of the frustration of trying to retrofit your dream into what others had done before you, either.
For the record, we did look seriously at a couple of undeveloped sites in town and played with the challenges, but they were beyond our means, leaving us to always lament the spectacular views that others now enjoy while also wondering how we would have managed the timing.
Still, to be fully honest, I have to say what’s unfolded before us is truly exciting, at least from our end. That kinda brings me back to that adage about writing about what you know, or at least what you find most fascinating at the moment.
But it’s also humbling. Just consider how much of daily existence we take for granted, at least in the so-called developed world.
The Isaac Hobbs mansion, off to the far corner of our block, is undergoing a thorough restoration. Half of it was about to cave in when we bought our property, but that’s no longer the case. The new owner wants to be historically accurate, as far as possible. In contrast, we want ours to be more livable. Besides, most of the period detail was ripped out decades ago.
A further block up the street, a more spectacular upgrade is being given to the circa 1807 federal house Aaron Hayden built and General Samuel D. Leavitt transformed into mansard mansion in the 1880s. It had fallen into foreclosure before its bold new owners came to town on the heels of Covid.
Leavitt was also Eastport’s first mayor.
Reader, beware, if you must.
Colby College, Waterville.
