Oh to be here.
July beginning and the tourists turning up looking for lobsters. The sun the same but the rest not. Well, a village here, too, but by the sea, not a forest.
Someone who fishes instead of someone who logs and no one even knowing what a smoke jumper is. Funny, trees all over Maine but not the catching fire every summer and burning up kind.
Brothers in law that work up in Bar Harbor for the rich people in the summer instead of growing wheat near Deer Park. Nieces that are maids and children’s nurses at the big summer hotels, the ones where they come up from New York and Boston to stay until the leaves on the trees start to change.
But all right. Life changing in an instant. Fellow out in Spokane just out of the service and visiting someone. Waiting for the bus and ended up on a date with the same fellow after sitting on the same bench. City Hall, a baby, and New England with a New England husband.
All right but yet . . . no mountains or fields of wheat . . .lobsters that jump out of the sea and fish that swim towards shore . . .but mountains in one’s mind . . . all that really matters . . .
This is not my story. It is the story, rather, of my friend Georgia C. Growing up in rural Washington State in the 1930’s she met her husband who was out there in the army, followed him east and never lived near her childhood home again except for numerous visits.
