I like the word “backstory”. It an obvious word. Not bloated with obscure references or a latin conjugation of a verb intransitive or extraterrestrial sid quo non. Not all definitions are as obvious. The backstory involved here consists of 57 or so summers spent in this house and surrounding environs in a rural community in Central Maine. The history of this area fills my memories. The Giffords ice cream stand used to be Rummels…I rode a pony where that double wide is…that house used to be our post office /general store with a wall of small metal and glass boxes, a reach in Coca-cola cooler, and a cheese wheel the size of a small car. I drive by these memories, exercising my recall, marveling at my invisible tethers. And then the idea of living amongst these histories catches hold and I marvel at how lucky I am to be able to co-exist with them. The few friends and acquaintances I developed from those times are gone but the lure is still large and real.
I sit on the porch, cold and tired after a 24 hour drive, and realize I don’t want to be anywhere else. The quiet is astounding and awe inspiring. Certainly amplified after years living within a mile or so of a busy urban interstate highway. Here the sounds are dulled by distances. A dog barking a mile across the lake is not the same annoyance as in urban life. Chain saws, gunshots, a siren, are transformed by the faintness of their urgency. I still find snowmobiles and personal watercraft abhorrently intrusive.
So I will return here in 3 weeks with the love of my life to build anew, amidst the chickadees and loons and mooses. I will share this new life with a girl that knew me back when I was but a mere grasshopper. I am grateful.