A Slice of American Pie: Part 11
Mainely Marvelous

As my head emerged from the depths of the lake, I took a deep breath and felt like I’d been baptized in the River Jordon. I had travelled half way around the globe to swim again in China Lake. “Maine: The Way Life Should Be” is the slogan for the state. For me it is: “Maine: The Way Life Used To Be” – our home for 25 years. I forget, until I return. The things that catch in the throat are not so much the things you remember, as those you’ve forgotten. “Oh, my goodness … remember that …. I haven’t thought of that in years … there’s the place… remember how we used to …. This is where we found that ….” Memories spring back to life as you drive down a street, see a familiar face in a shop, smell a fruit you loved, or view a field of purple blossoms that marked a new season.

As we traveled north into Maine, I felt myself dragging an anchor. I wanted to be alone and quiet. I was tired. And I think I was afraid to go back again. We passed a lake rimmed with pines, camps, docks and boats, waiting to launch out onto the water. I missed it so much – these tall trees, blue skies – yet don’t remember how great the hold is until I see them again.

I watched with eyes and heart wide open as we continued north, the roads as familiar as my own face. The gardens have the right plants, stores have the right names. It’s the right month. Sometimes in New Zealand I physically stop and think “what month is this?” because it doesn’t make sense. Say any month and there is an instant connection with holidays or season. Erase that and I am rudderless on the calendar of life. Each month evokes memories, and it is July in Maine. Full, robust summer. The start of school vacation.

In saner moments, I train myself to say “different” rather than “right”. But now, it fits. This is right. Is my heart rejecting the transplant to another country?

The American flag flies from the poles. Pictures of lobsters are on the car number/license plates. This is the home of white picket fences, wicker rockers on porches and three precious months of summer. Kids scurry around a baseball field. We pass three tanned boys with fishing poles over their shoulders. Others launch themselves off a bridge into the river below.

This is Vacationland where the Roosevelts and Vanderbilts used to ride the steamers up from the hot cities and spend their summers in vast sprawling estates. Tiny shacks opened their doors for multitudes of others seeking the same magic of starry skies and cool night air.
This is the land we called home for years, and we slip into it like a well worn pair of shoes. I can do nothing but fling my arms open wide and embrace it.

Maine is like New Zealand. You don’t pass through. You decide to go and those that do never forget.

I push myself up and perch on the top of my back rest for my first panoramic view. I look into the cars we pass to see if I know anyone in this state with a population of one million is on the same parallel as New Zealand, with the biggest difference being about 12 feet of snow and moose. These are the animals they are trying to find in the South Island, introduced many years ago from Canada. I see signs for Moose Crossings and Moose Drool Beer. Here moose wander in the roads. It’s hard to understand why their southern cousins would be so elusive.

Maine was the only place the Kiwi Kid could park his concrete mixer without being “ordinanced” out of town. And sheets could be pegged out on clotheslines. There are towns where you are not allowed to hang out clothes. Honest. Apparently it is synonymous with “Poor white trash”.

Paul tries to brake and throw me to a sitting position as we travel down Main Street. I hang on tenaciously. I have come a long ways to feast my eyes on these sights, and finally the lake.

This is the lake that we ice skated under full moons, canoed along on calm evening waters, cross country skied across as huge snow flakes fell and gazed upon every day from the sanctuary of the home.

My kiwi husband once said, while living in the States that he lived with a tension he wasn’t aware of until his feet hit the ground in New Zealand and it disappeared. He no longer had to be sure people understood him, that he used the right words, ate with a fork in his left hand. That same feeling lifted from the depth of my soul.

And for two weeks we were home, nestled in a cottage a stone’s throw from the water’s edge. Loons sang their crazy melodies at night. Fishermen floated past with their lines cast hopefully. I walked to the General Store to buy the paper, stopped to visit a friend in her garden, sang hymns in the white wooden pews, ate fresh strawberry shortcake, picked wild blueberries, and kayaked through reeds beside a friend as the flow of words and love matched our strokes.

One magical night as the end of the visit loomed, we relaxed on a pontoon boat as it moved slowly through the dark waters. Camp fires dotted the shoreline and lightning flashed in the sky like special effects at Disney. I knew it was time to pack again and close the door securely. “Would it have been easier if you hadn’t come?” a friend gently asked. I weigh the options for a moment and say, “No, I’m glad we’ve been here.” When we packed up our belongings many years ago I remember saying to two sad children, “I would hate to think we could live here for so long and leave without missing it.” Who has not felt the sting of love?

It tugs at me as we finally turn West and begin the journey back across the continent. It follows me down the road. And will be with me when we finally land in New Zealand. Another home, with more friends, and summer nights.