You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Late afternoon at the former West Quoddy Coast Guard lifesaving station. The boathouse, lower right, sits at the edge of Lubec Channel, with Campolbello Island, New Brunswick running above it. A bridge, barely visible here, connects Canada to the United States, with the town of Lubec continuing along the water. You may even detect the “sparkplug” lighthouse sitting in the water. The city of Eastport, where we live, can be seen beyond the bridge.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I really do love the deep blue of the North Atlantic on a morning like this.
Coastal Maine is rife with islands. After all, I do live on one. Here’s another, viewed from a cruise aboard the historic schooner Louis R. French in Penobscot Bay.
For more schooner sailing experiences, take a look at my Under Sail photo album at Thistle Finch editions.
Eastport has an active energy committee, which is good considering how many times we get hit with electrical outages. We live at the edge of the grid, after all, as well as on an island subject to some wild weather.
So while lunching at their Earth Day set of presentations, the man opposite me was asking about our house renovations. This is a small-town, after all, and everybody knows everything – or will.
As I explained the history of our place and some of its makeshift, even shocking, carpentry over the centuries, he interrupted me with an account of a father and son working on a project.
I thought he was talking about John Shackford senior and junior building our place.
As the two were working on the rafters, the son questioned his dad, “That’s six inches off, let me fix it.”
Naw, came the reply: “Just nail it!”
~*~
Sadly, I’m having to admit my realization of how often in my life that’s been the case.
And also, in our home project, how grateful I am that our contractor Adam would never settle for such sloppiness.
We fully intend for this house to last another 239 years.
Deep moss beside a trail included this patch. Somehow, I find it rather striking.
To explore related free photo albums, visit my Thistle Finch blog.
Jnana's Red Barn 