More than one person warned me on hearing about my impending visit to Maine.
"Watch out for all those creepy people and evil goings-on in the woods." And they looked at me as if I should understand what eeriness to expect. In a way, it was rather heartwarming to know that so many people were readers and had dipped into Stephen King.
But the Maine I thought I was going to was the land of painters like Andrew Wyeth, Winslow Homer, and Wolf Kahn—where fir trees crowd the rim of the restless ocean, rocky beaches are bathed in white foam and swarms of small islands gather offshore and slip in and out of the mist, and steep-roofed, white farm houses that have seen better days sit marooned in straw-colored fields. Other than that, until the middle of last May what I knew about the state of Maine was that a lot of comfortable shoes and casual clothes are made there. I knew that because I was wearing them.
I never understood the sobriquet Down East , so I went to Wikipedia for some light on the subject. This is what I found:
The Down East, The Magazine of Maine FAQ explains the origin of the term: "When ships sailed from Boston to ports in Maine (which were to the east of Boston), the wind was at their backs, so they were sailing downwind, hence the term 'Down East.' And it follows that when they returned to Boston they were sailing upwind; many Mainers still speak of going 'up to Boston,' despite the fact that the city lies approximately 50 miles to the south of Maine’s southern border."
Thus, Down East refers to the coast from Penobscot Bay to the Canadian border, and that's the area I wanted to visit. So, after attending a workshop in Massachusetts, I took advantage of geography and spent a few days with my friend Terry in Brunswick, a two-and-a-half-hour bus ride north of Boston. US 95, from just out of the city, is lined on both sides with green forest, thick enough to hide the commerce and housing that must exist along that major artery. I knew we had crossed the state line when I spied out the bus window a sign with a big red lobster on it.
This was the last week in May and the skies were thick with lowering gray clouds. Rain and fog were in the forecast every day. In Maine "the season" begins after Memorial Day, and the "high season" is July and August when boaters, fishermen, and shore lovers flock to the rocky, forested coast that wiggles and squiggles up to Canada. This cold, wet week most of the restaurants, inns, and motels were not open, giving a desolate look to the villages and towns I passed through.
I ended up spending six days Down East. That's not a lot of time, but enough to feel the spirit of the place because, well, it's all so . . . Maine-y. In the towns, large white houses with dark blue trim line the road, surrounded by wide green lawns and large, round, purple azalea bushes—all very neat and proper. Not a postmodern split-level structure among them. The shoreline is exactly like Homer's, rocky and windswept. Wolf Kahn, although his paintings are more abstract than realistic, perfectly described the woods. And they weren't like Stephen King's. The real Maine woods, just beginning to come out of their winter browns and grays, weren’t exactly creepy, just quiet and lonely. The only creatures I saw emerging from their dim paths were birders out for an early morning stroll.
During the six days I spent in Maine I never saw the sun. The sky was always overcast with cloud or misty with fog—it wasn't any brighter in one direction than another, so I had no way of knowing if I was facing north or south, east or west. I consulted the AAA map—if I turn left on Route One and pass through a certain town, I will know I am driving north. But, wait, the ocean is on my right. I have spent a lifetime being schooled that the ocean is on my left if I am going north. The whole six days I was completely discombobulated. It was a very strange feeling—perhaps that is the creepiness associated with Stephen King—and I was relieved to be home again, to know where the sun is, and to see it setting into the ocean just as it should.
