This was our smaller dinghy, agile enough to be managed by one person.
For more schooner cruise experiences, take a look at my Under Sail photo album at Thistle Finch editions.
Welcome to Middle End, maybe the only one on earth
When I moved to Eastport nearly five years ago, old-timers began telling me of the intense antagonism between the North End, or Dog Islanders, and the South End, aka Assault and Battery (for Battery Street) or Sodom and Gomorrah. Their antagonism toward Lubec just to the south was the only thing strong enough to unite them.
Yes, when it came to the antagonism toward Lubec, the town to the south, they unified in their venom, which was something like the reaction of Dog River residents toward Wolverton in the Canadian comedy series Corner Gas.
Only four months ago, at a historical society forum, did I first hear that the residential section between them – where I live – was known as Middle End, a designation that many of those who grew up here had never heard yet was common in usage by others.
It’s the neighborhood containing the majority of the homes in town, much of it proposed for National Historic Registry recognition as the Eastport Central Neighborhood district. Well, it does have its merits.
Our house would be the oldest within its boundaries, built by the man who originally held title to half of Middle End. His brother-in-law, Caleb Boynton, held the other half. Shackford’s sons and sons-in-law and presumably their wives were active in developing their share, what they surveyed with numbered plots as Majorville.
A middle, by definition, is between ends rather than being an end or even having one, I suppose. For me, that leads to a quaint contradiction. Is there even another Middle End on the planet? Google maps proffer a nada.
The Eastport neighborhood is largely to the west of downtown, with a little wrapping around to the south and north, so it wouldn’t exactly form a West End. And to the east of downtown? It’s all water and very quickly beyond that, Canada.
Well, if they had only called these “sides,” but for whatever reason, they didn’t see things that way.
The End.
Sometimes a group helps
The role of a writers’ group will elicit a range of responses.
Some find value in having a core circle that intensely critiques each participant’s ongoing work, while others – I’ll include myself – see that as limiting if the others are clueless about your style and vision. It’s the unpublished version of blind leading the blind.
Still, I have been greatly assisted by opportunities for weekly or monthly open reading sessions, starting with the Stoney Lonesome poets in Bloomington, Indiana, and picking up with the Café Eclipse evenings in Concord, New Hampshire; young poets who met at Barnes & Nobel in Manchester, New Hampshire; Isabel van Merlin’s Merrimack Mic coffeehouse nights in Newburyport, Massachusetts. Somehow, I didn’t feel that kinship in the Poetry Society of New Hampshire. Later, a monthly group known as Writers’ Night Out in Portsmouth, introduced a wide range of writers, both beginning amateurs and seasoned professionals, spanning fiction, non-fiction, poetry, advertising and public relations, script writing, and playwrighting. We never knew exactly what the mix would be, but it was always stimulating and we never felt a sense of competition, as far as I could tell. The tips and insights we shared could be quite useful. That’s where I first heard of Smashwords, for instance.
There were other stints where I was truly solo. I was never part of the Iron Pig group in the Mahoning Valley, for instance, though my artist then-wife had her gallery groups.
Baltimore had a large writers’ group that never quite jelled for me, though we did have a marvelous evening with Tom Clancy just before the release of his first movie. His honesty did offend some of those present, though I found it refreshing.
More recently, it’s come in the monthly open mics at the Eastport Arts Center, where spoken word usually alternates with music.
~*~
The arts center does offer inspiration on other fronts, too, including the Sunday afternoon presentations through winter, plus concerts, plays, the film society, and even contradancing.
The arts center is one reason our community stands apart from many others. We had nothing like it in Dover, nearly 30 times the size.
My original expectation of dilettantes and artist wannabes was quickly dispelled. A key post-Covid Stage East production, for instance, was two one-act plays – Beckett and Cocteau. And some of the best chamber music and jazz I’ve heard anywhere has been here. So we get a good dose of deep work.
But lately I’ve been hearing stories of some of its founders, some of whom have died since my arrival. One, for instance, had worked closely with theater great Tyron Guthrie. You get the picture.
The full history still needs to be written. Not that I’m stepping forward.
Ghosts in the neighborhood
I’ve previously posted on the phenomenon of ghosts residing in homes in New England, especially, somehow, Maine.
In that vein, I’m surprised we haven’t sensed anything in the household, especially considering its age. Maybe Anna Baskerville’s good vibes should get some credit here.
But I have asked about a few of our neighbors, and they quickly told of theirs. I am surprised by the details, including a smell or two. Also, so far, they seem to be limited to one per house and do prefer to don dark clothing.
At least they seem to be benign, only sad.
Note to self: Keep asking around. It is a great conversation starter.
~*~
Here are some related facts gleaned from Harper’s Index in recent years:
- Minimum percentage of Americans who say they’ve had a paranormal experience: 67.
- Who say this experience involved “smelling an unexplained odor”: 30.
- Who say they have the ability to psychically sense others’ emotions or auras: 24.
- Percentage of U.S. homeowners who believe their homes are haunted: 49.
- Of Gen Z homeowners who believe this: 65.
- Number of states in which sellers must respond truthfully if asked whether a murder has occurred in a home: 9.
- If asked whether a home is haunted: 1.
Blue Hill natural palette
This tonal range of color defined the trees was viewed through a restaurant window as we lunched in the Penobscot Bay town of Blue Hill. It’s subtle but to my eyes also visually exciting.
The Maine woods, as you’ll discover, often stray from the colors you’d assume.
Show some sympathy for those poor, lowly paid beleaguered clerks
They’re probably not to blame. Look, they’re usually struggling figures who all too often have to face self-entitled a-holes at the checkout counter or their equally crushed managers overhead. Here are a few things they’d love to tell you or maybe the offender before you or even their bosses.
Yes, here’s what they’d really love to say.
- “Let’s trade places. I’ll be the rude one, and you try to stay patient.”
- “If only our coffee was as strong as your attitude!”
- “Your tone is getting a price tag.”
- “Customers like you really test our ‘service with a smile’ policy.”
- “Your points would be more valid if they were less veiled in rudeness.”
- “We’re here to serve, not to be served attitude.”
- “Your words are as sweet as a lemon. Sarcasm intended.”
- “We promise fast service, not a tolerance for fast insults.”
- “You’ve mistaken my patience for a dumping ground.”
- “Have a nice day, somewhere else.”
While we’re at it, let’s go for a second round.
- “I appreciate your perspective, but rudeness is an extra charge we didn’t agree upon.”
- “Your impatience is understandable. Is it as urgent as your need for a manners refresher?”
- “Don’t worry, we charge by the item, not by the attitude.”
- “The ‘customer is always right’ policy doesn’t cover personal attacks. Please read the fine print.”
- “Did you mistake this conversation for an auction? Because you’re really bidding high on rudeness.”
- “We provide services, not psychic readings. Kindly state your problem, not your tantrum.”
- “Our products come with a warranty, but our tolerance for rudeness does not.”
- “Patience is a virtue, but it seems your cart is empty.”
- “The complaint box is for suggestions, not character assassinations.”
- “In our store, ‘sale’ applies to items, not civility.”
Or even a third.
- “We value customer feedback, but your rudeness is more of a monologue than a dialogue.”
- “Our goal is customer satisfaction, not ego inflation.”
- “Let me put you back into the waiting line.” However many hours that means.
- “Our service may be fast, but ‘instant respect’ isn’t on our menu.”
- “Our prices are competitive, but our patience isn’t limitless.”
- “We accept all major credit cards, but we don’t accept rudeness.”
- “This is a business, not a battlefield. Let’s keep the conversation civil.”
- “This is a store, not a stage. Kindly lower the drama.”
- Merry Christmas to you, too. And a *** New Year.
- Expletives deleted.
Togetherness?
At least we’re on the same page, politically speaking.
Kinisi 285
Hoppy
Halloweed
A Frenchman steering the French
Or driving, as he would say. For Philippe, now living in Montana, many memories of growing up in coastal Normandy came into play when he got his turn at the helm of the schooner Louis R. French.
His informed questions were well worth considering.
For more schooner sailing experiences, take a look at my Under Sail photo album at Thistle Finch editions.
Captain John’s incredible view
As I investigated the history of the rundown house we had bought, I was puzzled by a description that placed it at the corner of Shackford and Water streets, the other end of our block. Only later did I see that as the reality until Captain John Shackford senior sold off two lots a year before his death and the subsequent appearance of Third Street, perhaps the third east/west street in his tract but remaining the only numeral street in the entire city.
I keep trying to imagine his sweeping panoramic view from that time, with the waterfront below and its wharves still in his possession, and then out over the bay and the fields around him. None of the neighboring houses existed through most of that. The lot across Water Street, down to the tides, was steep and the upper part remained attached to our property until the late 1970s or so. My, how we’d love to still have that unobstructed view of Passamaquoddy Bay, the part known as Friar Roads!
As I consider the loss, let me mention it’s what’s too often hailed as the price of progress.
At least we have some great neighbors.
Jnana's Red Barn 