MAINE RAMBLINGS - A Weekend Visiting the Past

MAINE RAMBLINGS

It was a much more emotional weekend than I had anticipated. I went up for the weekend because one of my god daughters was celebrating her marriage. Not a wedding – that had happened a year ago, with only about six people in attendance, on a sailboat. This was the celebration of that event one year later, to which around 130 people were invited. Because it “wasn’t a wedding,” only about 80 of the best and the brightest showed up.

Steps toward feeling older when you don’t have children of your own to measure your life against – when your god children get married. (As I write this, I am on a plane with a screaming child – and I don’t mean a child who is crying but one whose every utterance is loudly proclaimed and whose parents seem unable or unwilling to modulate his volume. I don’t quite have the courage to tell them that if they think this is cute, or Acceptable, they are wrong. I’d buy the kid a beer if I could be sure he’d drink it.)

As I was saying (and that kid’s screaming cuts through the noise cancelling headphones with music playing) before I was distracted, thinking about growing older – events like this do it. The young lady in question is the daughter of my oldest friend in the world. Not that he is much older than I, but he has been a close friend of mine longer than anyone else. I don’t know where I rank in his universe of friendships, but in mine, he is right up there in the top two. (Now to be perfectly fair, two others who would be up there have already died, leaving the field a little thinner.) He has sort of drifted out of my life in recent years and one reason for the trip, besides celebrating the wedding and meeting the groom (technically the party was the day before the one year anniversary, so I think we still could say “groom.” I’m not exactly sure that the etiquette is on that point.) was the chance to connect with my friend.

I also got to see the rest of the family. Another of his daughters from his first marriage is also my god daughter, I performed the wedding ceremony when his oldest daughter got married, and the bride’s three brothers (all four from his second marriage) are extraordinary young men. One is married and the other two will be serious catches when they plunge. My friend has married for a third time, and brought his current wife with him to the celebration. I didn’t really get a chance to talk with her so I have no opinion. I adore his first two wives.

In my life, my friend and his families have all been very important to me in various ways and at various times, and from what they say, I guess have been important to them as well. Seeing them all so grown up and happy (not without problems, hey, we all have  - it problems and sorrows and areas of our lives that are less than we might wish) and extraordinary people who are continuing to grow and grow well – it was a very special time, Friday night and Saturday and then again on Sunday, as many of us gathered to help strike the party decorations and clean the lodge and return it to rustic normalcy.

That was one stimulus to emotion and looking back and feeling extraordinarily lucky about the people who have come into my life.

On Saturday morning, I drove from Searsport (I’m not going to help you, you’re just going to have to look at a map) to Bar Harbor Maine. My best friend in all the world, who died around 11 years ago, his family had a summer house in Bar Harbor. A BIG house, with MANY bedrooms. I didn’t go as a child – not sure why – but later I was a frequent visitor, and when his parents divorced, his mother kept the garage (something like a four car garage) and built a lovely apartment above it and a nice one room apartment on the ground floor, which I frequently occupied. His mother and I became good friends in our own right, and I would pop up and visit whether he was around or not. I loved those visits and the people I met. A tradition arose that on the last morning of my time in Maine, my farewell breakfast would be cold lobster, English muffin with lots of melted butter, champagne, and often enough, if my timing was right, blueberries. THAT, in mine humble opinion, is breakfast.

I hadn’t been to Bar Harbor in many years. My friend died when I was in Nigeria, and his mother has moved to be with her other son in California. She is in her late 80’s – sound mind, a body that does not cooperate as she would wish, and often enough she is annoyed with God that she is still her. I wanted to be able to tell her that I had visited Bar Harbor and tell her what it is like- it will upset her, I know, but a little emotion is good for people of any age. Keeps the blood flowing. So I drove from Searsport (found it yet?) and paid my visit.

Bar Harbor is even more a tourist attraction and there are many more motels and hotels and places for visitors to stay than I remember. The old quaint stores have been “upgraded” and the signs are all “faux” old style – a la Hamptons at its worst. Crowded, it’s not bad and not depressing even, but it isn’t what it was. I didn’t expect that it would be, but as I browsed the streets, I missed what I had known. Same thing happened in Princeton – the very popular town that everyone knows now is not what I grew up with, and there is no way it could be, or even should be. But I miss it.

On the way back, I passed Blue Hill, Maine. Now I belong to a group called the Blue Hill Troupe. I first encountered them when I was singing with the Light Opera of Manhattan in the early 70’s, and one night someone said the house had been virtually bought out by the Blue Hill Troupe. (It was not a large theatre – a moderate girl scout troop could have filled the house. Still, a sell out is a sell out.) When doing Gilbert and Sullivan, one is used to members of the audience mouthing words of songs as you sing. This night, the whole audience mouthed every word – dialogue and songs. It was an evening to remember.

The Blue Hill Troupe was founded in 1927 in – wait for it – Blue Hill, Maine, and very quickly moved its base of operations to New York. Today they do two shows a year – a more contemporary musical in the Fall and a Gilbert and Sullivan in the Spring. Each year they adopt one charity, and all the money they raise during the year (from the shows and program ads and dances and whatever they can think of and pull off) goes to this charity. There are some VERY good singers in this group and some REALLY good tech people, so the production standards are always very high. I’ve only been a member for a couple of years, and I don’t do much with them, but it’s a good group.

So instead of passing Blue Hill, I turned down the road, went to the town, parked and walked out on a dock and quietly sang “Hail Poetry” (from the Pirates of Penzance, for those of you who are not as up on you G&S as you should be) which is the anthem of the Blue Hill Troupe. No one will care, but it was one of those things one does. At least this one.

Since the theme for this wandering started out as why this was an unexpectedly emotional weekend, I will not spend a lot of time swelling on the setting up of the party or the party or the taking down of the party. The Bar Harbor visit produced its own emotions and recollections, and the grey rainy day that was Sunday served only to enhance the mood – whatever mood I was in at any given moment.

But my trip down the lane of old memories was not over. I had looked at a map (I have learned over the years that my mother was right when she complained about my lack of geographical knowledge and so I am not ashamed to resort to maps on a regular basis) and discovered that Belfast and Camden (where my god daughter lives and where the party was – and if you have not found Searsport, I have just given you two nice hints) are not far from Weld, Maine. Now Weld is a tiny little speck on the map, found by first finding Rumford and then circling around. Or perhaps finding Lake Webb and circling around.

But Weld is where Camp Kawanhee was, a summer camp for boys where I spent three extraordinary years. I hadn’t thought about the spot for years, and I didn’t even know if it was still in existence. So – Google, of course, what else. And sonofagun, it is still running. In fact, last year they celebrated their 90^th year and had a big alumni reunion. The pictures of the place look a lot like the place I remember – and I found myself waxing unusually nostalgic. So, since my flight to Orlando was not until 5:55 in the afternoon, off I went in the grey and rain and drove 2 ½ hours to Weld. As I drew closer, the rain stopped and the sun came out (thank you, God) and I revisited scenes of my youth.

There are signs that say please sign in at the office, so I did, and met the camp director, who chatted with me for a while (I suspect both visiting and assuring himself that I was not a kidnapper or worse) and we talked about the camp. One of the innovations is a museum, in which I found a book about camp history that HAD A PICTURE OF ME! Talk about validation! I told him some stories and bits he hadn’t known, and then I was free to just wander the camp. I was stopped twice by counselors or staff – very politely and very friendly, but also making sure I had not just strolled in, which impressed me. I saw no one with an earbud plugged into a head. I saw no iPod or Pad or gaming device of any kind, just lots of boy running and playing and interacting and exuding high energy and if they weren’t having a lot of fun, they are developing an extraordinary crop of young actors up there.

New lodges have been added. The new lodges when I was there are now old. The dining hall burned down and was rebuilt. They have a rock climbing wall and they reach scuba, neither of which existed in “my day.”  But many of the activities and the trips and the spirit of the place is the same. Memories of names and events and people kept bubbling up, and while the place was in some ways different, unlike Princeton or Bar Harbor, I don’t miss it. Kawanhee makes me wish I had a son to send (unlike the child who is in his second hour of annoying everyone within earshot. And whose screams cut through the noise cancelling headphones playing music like a hot knife through soft butter. Sleeping is NOT an option on this trip. By the way, for future reference – Allegiant Air provides nothing for free. Including the seat. If you want a reserved seat, you pay for it. If not, you get assigned a seat after everyone with reserved seats is seated. You can also buy priority seating – and they serve nothing for free. Everything is for sale, including bottled water. I have not been to the toilets to see if there is a coin slot on the door, or what the charge is for toilet paper. I’m scared to go. So to speak.)

And then I drove another 2 ½ hours back to the airport, to turn in the rental car and start the trek to Orlando. Which I do NOT expect to be an emotional experience, especially since I was there only a coupe of weeks ago.

I don’t mean it morbidly, but I find myself saying goodbye to places. Last time I was in Rome, last time I was in London, I consciously went out of my way to visit some of my favorite places, with a sense that I might not ever see them again. Certainly that was in my mind this weekend as well. Now I am NOT suffering from a terminal disease that I have been keeping secret, I actually feel very good – I’ve been going to the gym regularly and walking more and trying to watch what I eat (I’ll have you know I passed up a chocolate cupcake with mint frosting this weekend. OK – I passed it up on the second day, having had one the day before. But I knew what I was passing up, which ought to get me even more credit, no?) I’m trying. So this feeling of goodbye is not related to anything (except perhaps a highly developed sense of melodrama).

I apologize if this is not my usual chipper, laugh-dotted reflection, but it wasn’t that kind of a weekend. Not sad – but rich. With the exception of the screaming child on the airplane. If a child cannot behave in public, don’t take him out until he can. And if the parents can’t teach him, just shoot them all.

Whoo – got THAT off my chest! And I don’t want to hear any more complaining about not writing in my blog more often. I’m gonna try. That’s all I can promise.

One last thing. If I had several lives to live, I would definitely live at least one of them in Maine. I truly love that place – both for the memories, but as much for the people who are there, and for what it is. The lobsters don’t hurt either. ($4.19 a pound!)