Following the River

I walked along Rt. 1 towards a Hannaford Grocery and a little stream I had seen on the way to Moody’s. The sun was dropping quickly into the trees but leaving streaks across the sky that would last awhile. Route 1 in Maine, in New England in general, is a far cry from the strip mall and stoplight hell that snakes through Maryland like a cancerous intestine and I looked forward to meandering down the quiet, grassy street.

I got to the stream after passing Deb’s Diner, which I pitied for having to compete with Moody’s, and turned the corner to walk along the water. As I rounded it, there was a wooden sign painted black on the right side of the road. In pretty gold letters, it read, "Andrews Campbell, Attorney At Law". It was very professional and reminded me of the one in front of my lawyer’s office. Then I looked at the house. It was a sorry sight, painted avocado green in some spots and naked brown wood in others, with rotting window sills and plastic in some instead of glass. I couldn’t figure out how the two fit. It didn’t make sense.

Could the condition of the house have been considered suitable by rural standards? Was it just my city-slicker superiority that was making me pity the lawyer who tried to run a business out of their home? Were they actually successful, and none of the clients thought twice about the "office" that in Laurel would be considered "white trash"?

I started to ask the two men in the driveway who were loading landscaping equipment into a trailer if the law office was open, but the older one interrupted me before I could get the words out, smiling and saying, "Well, I was going to go in the house but now I’m gonna stay out here and say hello to you!" He was middle-aged, with long brown hair and a ripped flannel shirt. I was still a ways away from the yard at the time, and on the other side of the street, so it struck me as a little creepy. I smiled and said hello back but maintained my distance, not wanting to get closer and risk the possibility of having to turn down an invitation into the house.

Instead I walked into a little park with picnic tables and a split-rail fence that didn’t do much to keep children away from the water. I stepped right over it and onto some rocks that sat on the edge of the stream. I had picked up a real estate listing circular near the fire station and sat on the rock to find the ones in Wiscasset. There were none. Everything was further north - Camden, Rockland, Waldoboro. So I started further down the road to find a garbage can.

I stepped back over the fence and continued on up the street along the stream, which was becoming less of a stream and more of a small river as I went - it was beautiful! I heard what sounded like rapids a little further up the stream, and as I came around a small patch of trees, I was amazed - the calm little creek turned into a rushing river in less than a half mile! I was even more surprised when I sat down and watched the water spill quickly over the stones in the creekbed and at one point, to my right, the rocks stopped. This must mean there was a waterfall over the vista of the river!

I kept walking and the water got louder as I got to the point where the foamy water disappeared. I ducked behind the local VFW hall and pressed myself between some trees and a chain link fence to get a better look and sure enough, there was a huge waterfall, just like the one in Black River, NY, except this one wasn’t surrounded by machinery to harvest its power. It was pristine. It was untouched. And my nose was caught on a splinter in the fence. It hurt like hell.

When I untangled myself, I came around from behind the VFW and thought about stepping inside. I’m not a member of the American Legion and I’m certainly not a veteran of a foreign war, unless you call standing in line at a security checkpoint for four hours waiting to get into President Bush’s second inaugural parade (in order to protest it) in the midst of 700 joyous Republicans a foreign war, but I’ve always wanted to breeze through the doors like I belong, just to see what would happen. I bet I could make a lot of friends, talk about my grandfather, who was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his heroic actions in the Korean War, and hang out for hours talking about V-Day if they just let me stay for awhile. Maybe someday I’ll be brave enough to try it. I was that day, but there was some sort of big meeting going on. I could see a bunch of wrinkled faces looking forward at a silhouette that had its back to me and decided to keep going.

I walked over a bridge that crossed a wider, post-waterfall part of the stream on one side, and another waterfall on the other. The view of this one wasn’t as good as my nose-in-the-fence view, because it was partly shielded by the edges of the bridge, but the sound was still impressive. Two pre-teen boys were peddling their bikes up the hill alongside me and I wanted to talk to them so bad, but as I learned at the Mennonite tent fair, pre-teen boys want nothing to do with a friendly 25-year-old girl, even one that tries to make friends and pull her baseball glove out of the trunk to join in for a game of catch. 25-year-old girls are totally creepy and un-cool.

I turned right at the top of the hill and the boys turned left. Turning left would have brought me back out to Rt. 1, but it was still a bit light out so I kept going further away from my car. I passed another VFW, this one didn’t have windows in the front but the door was wide open. I stepped into a small foyer with doors leading to large rooms on either side. Directly opposite the front door was a memorial to all the people who had fought in every American war, even the Revolution, from the town of Waldoboro. I don’t mean died in combat. I mean fought period.

Mike and I had been musing over the same thing when we passed a similar war memorial in New Hampshire, right outside of Portsmouth. The town of Newington is so small that all soldiers are mentioned, not just those who didn’t come home. If they had made a memorial to all the men who had died, between the 1700's to Vietnam, there would be perhaps 10 or 15 names. The same was true in Waldoboro. Every local soldier from every war was listed; those who came home were in white, those who died or are missing in gold, with stars or crosses to distinguish them. I thought it was so great to see every soldier named.

The names were in alphabetical order for each war, and it was obvious to see that many families had sent numerous sons and brothers off to every one. Langdon, Seaver, Baker, and Eaton were all names that appeared many times in succession for each individual war. There were a few Johnsons on the wall as well. I wanted to take a picture, but I was also trying not to disturb the meeting taking place in the big room to my left.

I could hear ladies, they sounded like middle-aged or older, clucking away and listened carefully to them move chairs around. From their chattering I could tell they had gathered into a circle and joined hands. Then they started chanting a little poem, which got louder as it progressed, about supporting each other and not being afraid to face challenges. The last line went, "I’ll be here to spread good cheer and give the courage to tops!"

Tops? What the heck is tops? Who is that? I looked up from my "I’m Being Silent And Staring At The Floor" spot and towards the open door they were beyond. A flier on the door read, "T.O.P.S. - Taking Off Pounds Sensibly". It was a weight-loss support group. I quietly stepped out the door and back out onto the street, not eager to disturb them.

Further up the street was a pizza shop/video store with an ice cream parlor growing out of its side. Stores like this are everywhere, I’m finding, but this one especially reminded me of the tiny general store in Annville, PA, I had seen years ago at summer camp, the one that was the town gas station/deli/ice cream shoppe/toy store/video rental place/liquor store. Maybe it was the movies, but it was great.

I was high up on top of the hill, away from the river by now. I could see it in some places, in clearings through trees and houses, stretching out across the landscape like a child’s wobbly Big-Wheel track.