The Journey Back to Quebec: Part I, Go on Up to Jackman

Bonjour, mes amis!  I'm sorry I have been away for so long--from my own blog and from yours, too. This is the longest blogging break I have ever taken.  It wasn't expected, but it was necessary. Summer swept me away this year with weekly visitors at our home in Portland, lots of work, and then, at last, a long-awaited journey to Quebec City avec Monsieur Magpie.

We are lucky here in Maine that Quebec is our neighbor to the Northwest.  This means we have a little taste of Europe just a short drive away.  Still, it had been many years since either Todd or I had been to Quebec City.  In fact, neither of us had been there since we were children.  We suspect that perhaps we both visited during the same summer back in the 1970's.  Maybe we passed each other on the same street, no?  A romantic thought, and one I choose to believe.

This year it just felt right to both of us that we make a pilgrimage there to celebrate our 17th wedding anniversary, summer, childhood memories, and life in general.  My heritage on my father's side is French Canadian, and Quebec City is the place where my own parents spent their honeymoon 50 years ago this summer, so what better place to visit?  And what better time to do it?  

When I was a girl, my parents packed us kids into the back of the faux-wood-paneled station wagon, and we headed up to Canada during a heat wave.  Back in those days nobody in our part of the world had air conditioning in their cars, so it was a sticky, grumbling trip through logging towns and the low mountains of the Kennebec River watershed.  Moose country.  Lumber country.  The maple-sap and pine-scented world of my roots.

Then we hit Jackman, Maine, the last real town before the Canadian border, and even my eight-year-old self knew we were at the edge of anything familiar.  Border towns tend to be edgy in more ways than one, and Jackman didn't disappoint with its diners, roadhouses, and ramshackle motels.

And all these decades later, Jackman feels nearly the same.  I won't lie.  For me it possesses a slightly ominous air that was only enhanced on this trip by the fact that when I walked over to take photos of the abandoned train station, a young man pulled up next to the station and stared at me from his car.  He just sat there in the empty lot, watching me, one finger tapping the steering wheel.  I edged as far away from his car as I could as I made my way back to the convenience store where we'd parked, but he never took his eyes off me.  It wasn't until I met back up with Todd at our car that the creepy guy finally drove away.  This, coupled with the motel in Jackman that doubles as a place for all your taxidermy needs, lent our fifteen minutes there a distinct Hitchcockian flavor. 

Once we were on our way, though, our temporary case of the heebee-jeebees disappeared as we sang songs about Jackman to the tune of the Johnny Cash/June Carter Cash song "Jackson," dove back into practicing our French, and tossed around possible plans for our stay in Quebec.  Other than our B&B reservations, we had no firm itinerary, for Mr. Magpie and I are avid travelers, but not very good tourists.  What I mean is that we bristle at itineraries and pamphlets listing the requisite "attractions," preferring to stumble upon wonderful surprises as we go and to strike up conversations with locals and fellow travelers alike.  Quebec, we would discover, is one of the best places in North America to do just that.

Next Installment: Part II, How to Recover Four Years of Forgotten High-School French in Four Days

P is for People

People are definitely what I am thinking about today as the rain continues to pour down, and hundreds of folks who live near rivers all over New England are being evacuated from their homes.  I took the above photo a few weeks ago at Great Meadows in Concord, a place we visit often to go walking and bird watching.  In the photo my husband and his sister are standing in front of what is usually the beginning of a long causeway between two marshes; however, the marshes--home to countless animals--have been flooded for weeks with overflow from the Concord River.  So, displaced animals, too, are on my mind.  

As I watched the local news last night, I saw an elderly woman being evacuated from her home, and her one concern was not for her house; it was for her cats, whom she thinks of as her children.  The caring rescue workers crated them up and brought them to a nearby animal shelter to wait out the storm.    

With nearly 13 inches of rain, this is the wettest March on record in Boston, and it's the fourth wettest month since 1872.  With more rain on the way tonight and tomorrow, it will likely become the second wettest month on record.  The Boston Globe has posted a piece on how to build your own ark.  Indeed, where we live on the mighty Merrimack River, the flood season can seem quite biblical.  

P is for People, yes.  And Pleuvoir and Patience and Pouring and Paddle and Prayers.  

  

F is for . . .

I have come here my whole life, returned to scramble over stones, climb dark stairs, explore the honeycomb cells and arches and hear the wind moan.

I was born near the mouth of a river, that in-between realm, neither salt nor fresh, shifting with tides and storms and the ocean's swell.  Yet still the fort stands, and we return for welcomes, farewells, the fights that no words can solve, the pains that time never seems to quell.   

We come back to the stronghold, defenseless ourselves, seeking solace in the salt and wind and seagrass whipping harsh against our legs.  Here we stand at the edge, not safe at all, but still we stay

as if the stones themselves support us, as if memories of the years we've spent sustain us, as if we've never had to say goodbye, as if as long as these arches stand we are safe, there is something sure, there is this, always this, if nothing else--some things endure.

Fort Popham, Phippsburg, Maine

Happy Hallowell

It was Todd's birthday this weekend, so we took a trip up to Hallowell, Maine, on the Kennebec River.  One of our favorite habits is staring at old buildings and imagining what we'd do with them if they were ours.  You know how you do, like imagining a whole other life that seems quite possible for a magic fifteen minutes or maybe even an hour.  I love those little windows of dream time, especially when shared with the coolest person I know.  Hallowell is the perfect place to indulge in this habit of ours because it is pure architectural perfection.  Of course, it doesn't hurt that it's packed with antiques shops, too!  At the Antiques Mall we bought a set of three old (I mean old) lockers from a high school in upstate New York.  They're going to hold belts and ties and scarves and whatnot back at the homestead in Massachusetts.

One of the shops downtown is guarded by ferocious beasties and graced by two Buddha heads.

I am in love with these two buildings.

We often speak of Southern Gothic literature, art, and architecture, but growing up in Maine, I always felt that there's a Northern Gothic, too, and places like Hallowell epitomize this style and feeling,

Think of the wonderful patina of Savannah, place it up north in the cold with less light and a mix of Victorian and colonial houses, and you start to get a sense of what Hallowell is like.

Someone is redoing this massive beauty high on a hill.  Think of the ghost stories you could write here!  Speaking of which, Stephen King's house just up the road a ways in Bangor is well worth a look, if you're ever in Maine.

As you head south of Hallowell on the back roads, you encounter sweet Maine villages like East Pittston, where you'll find a gorgeous compound of houses that all appear to be part of Tuttle Antiques.

Lovingly restored, the houses glow in the late-afternoon sun.

We stopped briefly in Dresden to get gas at a tiny store with pumps from the 70's that had--I'm not kidding--duct tape on them.  Not sure what it was holding together, and I probably don't want to know.  I felt like we were on an episode of the Red Green show.  But across the street was this lovely church with the sun setting behind it.

Back in Portland, we hopped on the ferry to head home.  The sky was burning pink behind us and the stars were waking up in front of us.  I asked Todd if he'd had fun.

"Yep," he said. "Best birthday ever."

"You say that every year."

"And it's always true."

P.S. If you're ever in Hallowell and you need a great meal, go to Slate's.  They make all of their own breads, croissants, and muffins; their food is tasty; and we had the sweetest waitress ever.  Their bakery is just a couple of doors down.  We had to split a pumpkin whoopie pie.  All that snooping around old buildings had made us hungry!

P.P.S.  Before I forget, the pretty leaf-skeleton lantern on my new header is by Pachadesign.  I bought two from Sammy and Glenn to have for my table during the holiday season and beyond.  They are so delicate and beautiful that I can't stop taking pictures of them, even when there's no candle inside.

Sunlight & Shadows

The Calm Before the Rush on Portobello Road

Morning Sunlight Streaming into Winchester Cathedral

Midday Sun Through the Clerestory Windows at Bath Abbey

Late Afternoon at Regents Park

A special installation called "Treegents Park" included a giant swing, super-sized hammock, and various tree houses and forts for kids of all ages.  We checked it out after paddling around the duck pond.  Positively dreamy.

Sunset at Russell Square

We like to stay in Bloomsbury when we visit London (big surprise), and it's always a relief after emerging from the Tube at the end of the day, a bit grubby and worse for wear, to rest our poor feet at one of the benches around the fountain in Russell Square.  An excellent people-watching spot.

Spider Web on a Grape Arbor at The Real Eating Company in Lewes

Late Afternoon on London's South Bank

Sunset on the South Bank

There are so many stories in this picture.  I'll definitely use this one as a writing prompt for my creative writing students!

I know, I know, we don't think of sunshine and England mixing all that much, but in two and a half weeks, we had about two hours of rain!  Most summer visits to London I end up wearing a jacket and wellies, but this was strictly sandal and sunglasses weather.  Today it is raining where I live, which I like, too, but it's lovely to think back on all that London sun!

Simple Gifts

When the amazing Christina over at Soul Aperture said she was hosting another Simple Things day, I knew I wanted to play along again.  

Here are just a few of the simple things for which I am thankful:

~oatmeal with brown sugar~vintage post cards~knowing that when hail is falling like quarters from a jackpot (as it was today in the photo above), my best friend and I will wait out the storm together~homemade lemonade

~the secret world of the terrarium Marlowe made me~a day that's sunny and dry enough to play tennis~rediscovering a stash of letters from a childhood pen pal~ferris wheels

~penny jars~seeing my husband's harness boots by the door~Virginia's strawberry-rhubarb jam~second chances~the roof over my head and the skylight that lets me see the stars

~eating popcorn and re-watching the Harry Potter films in preparation for the new one~seeing a red-tailed hawk this morning just outside my window~coffee ice cream~campfires

~the way strawberries bring a blush to a bowl of cream~the scent of lavender~an email out of the blue from a long-lost friend~the sound of Scout's purr (a little engine she is)~trying again

~strangers who say hello on the street~singing along to 80's songs~cinnamon toast~wooden bowls~Queen Anne's lace~curling up in a quilt with a book and a cup of tea

~forgiveness~old keys that long ago lost their doors~playing Scrabble with my family~the scent of cedar~mix & match dishes in a camp kitchen~sea-polished stones~typing this list~the candle that's burning on my desk~the rain (softer now) that's falling outside my window~my love, who lies near me, fast asleep. 

"I am beginning to learn that it is the sweet, simple things of life 

which are the real ones after all."  

~Laura Ingalls Wilder

Searching the Past

A few months ago I was invited to read at an event celebrating the cultural backgrounds of poets living in and around Lowell, Massachusetts.  Each of us was asked to read a poem about our own family's stories or traditions.  I realized as I prepared for the reading that even though my French-Canadian heritage on my father's side is a very important part of my identity, I have never written very much about it.  I began sifting back through memories I still have of my father and the stories he would tell us about growing up in Old Town, Maine.  Even though I spent many a Sunday afternoon around the table of my memere and pepere's kitchen in Old Town, the stories seemed like myths from a distant time and place.  Now that decades have passed since my father died, those old tales seem even more mythical, so I decided that I needed to try to write about them.  

Before I began drafting, I scoured the internet for history and pictures, focusing especially on records of logging on the Penobscot River, since I remembered my father telling my brother, sister, and me tales about the log drives.  The more I read, the more fascinated I became.  In my wanderings, I came across an amazing archive of photographs collected, organized, and cataloged by a group of former and current residents of French Island, a small river island that is part of Old Town.  The collection is called Nos Histoires de L'Ile, or Our Stories of the Island. Most of the photographs date from the late 19th century, but some are from as late as the 1930's and 40's.  I began looking up family names, hoping to find photographs of my grandparents or their parents.  Instead, I stumbled upon the photograph above, a picture of my father, John Thibodeau, serving as an altar boy in the 1940's.  Of course I have seen photographs of my father as a child before, but to find one on the internet nearly a quarter century after his death was a profoundly moving experience for me.  I felt like I was reaching back through time and loss and layers of the past--all the way back to who he was as a person--not just my father--but his own person, John, with most of his life yet to live.  Later that night I drafted this poem.  

The Log-Drive Lessons

For years before he died,

my father told the tales

of how he dove

when he was young 

beneath the drives 

with the Old Town boys

who learned to swim

in the dark and cold

under the massive logs

come down by the thousands

from the Penobscot's four fingers

to feed the pulp mills' 

sulphurous rolls.

There was no secret method:

just hold your breath, 

open your eyes

and search beneath the floating shoals

of spruce till sunlight shone

between two logs

and you could rise

through the surface,

streaming silver, a river

god, king

of summer, lord

of bark and pitch

and filthy water.

There was no going home

until you'd tried.

Boys who paused on the riverside

were tied round the waist

with rope like writhing bait

and tossed by the log drivers

or their own fathers

into the dark and cold.  

They never knew,

my father said,

how far they'd have to go,

how long their lungs

would have to hold

until they found the light

on their own

or the men instead would have to haul

them back to shore,

where they'd stand alone,

rope-burned and cold,

while the others dove

ever deeper, 

disappearing for countless stretches.

The shape and depth

of the lessons

fit no measure 

they'd learned in school,

where there was nothing to prove.

Here, on the river,

there were legends to forge

in the dark and cold,

like Lenny Cote,

whose eyes were the copper

of river water--he could

make it all the ways from the boom

at the mill to the dock

at the rail yard, diving

down and rising,

his body a needle

stitching the river's flow;

and Francis LaPierre

who pierced the river's skin

and held his breath longer than

anyone could ever know,

and then never found

the space or light or strength

to rise again.

My father and his friends

dove after him,

but he was gone,

leaving them to swim to shore,

leaving them a tale to tell,

a fate to count

as the measure 

of what they'd learned

beneath the logs,

how much they'd risk,

how much they'd lose,

how far they still had left to go.