Downtown, Maine: a primer
A while back I got an anxious phone call from Bollard editor Chris Busby. “Peavey,” he said, “I’m going on a little trip. You know the state. I need some information.”
This was not an unusual request for me to receive. Despite the fact I once prided myself on bleeding from the ears any time I stepped off the Portland peninsula, the state of Maine is now my domain.
Not that I don’t find this turn of events mildly surprising. Having grown up in Maine and invested quite a bit of time and energy fleeing the state, the last thing I thought I’d ever want is to be known as the Maine Go-to Girl.
But what happened is this: When I returned to Maine for good, I settled back on the peninsula with no intention of straying beyond the safety of the I-295 girdle surrounding me. During this time, I was hired as the arts editor of the now-defunct Casco Bay Weekly. I went out every night. I attended benefit galas in manses on the Prom and raucous loft parties the cops had to break up. I heard symphony premieres at Merrill Auditorium and heavy metal shows in the beer-soaked dungeon of Geno’s. Wherever Action Girl (my nickname then) and her various posses traveled, we would hold court. Even after I left my desk job in 1995, I continued to prowl the streets of Portland – this time as the loudmouthed, Doc Marten’s-wearing, slam-poet, “Outta My Way” columnist. And if you asked me back then, I would tell you without a soupcon of irony or humility that, Yes, as a matter of fact, I do own Portland.
Then a shift occurred. Going out began to lose its luster. I got sick of cheap white wine in plastic cups and beer spilled on my Chucks. I was tired of late nights and last call and ringing ears. To wit: I was getting old. I was also getting more and more interested in fleeing town to visit friends in Carrabassett Valley, Stratton, Blue Hill, Sorrento and beyond. Plus, my friend Joyce – who used to order me around and run my social life in Portland – suddenly packed up her fleece and defected to Bethel. Since I didn’t have a job anymore, I started hanging out up there whenever she told me to, which was frequently.
At the same time, my pal Andrew Weegar (the former Maine Times writer who died in 2005) decided it was his mission to reintroduce Peavey into the Wild. He dragged me canoeing down the West Branch of the Penobscot, ice fishing on wooded ponds and stomping around in bogs and creeks all over the state. I remember on one of our trips watching in horror as he picked up a fork from the dirt and stirred our scrambled eggs. I ate them anyway – and maybe even growled while doing so.
But mostly, it was my freelance work for Down East magazine that took me to the places I might otherwise have overlooked: Fort Kent and Calais, Grand Lake Stream and Sysladobsis, the Rapid River and Kennebago, Northeast Carry and Seboomook, Monhegan and Matinicus. Suddenly, I wanted to see everything – I wanted to roam the Golden Road, tame the Fox Island Thoroughfare, canoodle in the County, watch the sun rise on Cadillac Mountain and in Eastport. I wanted to meet every woodsman and barkeep, sleep in a yurt in February, know Baxter like the back of my hand, scale the Height of Land, wrassle bears and identify yellow rumped warblers and ruby crowned kinglets. And I set out to do so. Best of all, I met and married a man who felt the same way. We even honeymooned in Machiasport – by choice. Portland grew to be a great place to return to with our hair full of twigs and our pockets stuffed with stories, but it otherwise just seemed so, well, Portinsular.
So, when Busby called that day, I thought I was about to hand the lad the key that would open the door to the state for him, as well. And where, I wondered, was he venturing off to? What secret back roads or swimming holes could I disclose? What dive bars and birding spots? (There actually used to be one-in-the-same in Lubec.) Which hiking trails and clam shacks? I leaned back in my chair, ready to bestow my pearls. “And so, Busby. How can I help you?”
There was a pause on the other end of the phone. I could almost discern a film of departing-the-peninsula sweat forming on his upper lip. “Well,” he said, “I have to drive to Biddeford this week, and I need to know how long it will take.”
Clearly, I had my work cut out for me.
And thus, my new travel series, “Downtown, Maine,” which can be found in the inaugural print version of The Bollard (hot off the presses this coming Wednesday) came to be. When Busby and I first discussed the series, I had visions of taking readers to find the best pan-fried oysters in the state (in, I kid you not, Eustis), or barhopping in Rumford, or hanging out on Mount Desert Island off-season. And that may come, but after hearing the terror in my editor’s voice, I saw that baby steps were called for. We’ve decided to begin with destinations from which you can still bum a ride back to Portland if you freak out and start sniveling for a Standard baguette or an ùna-tini. It’s not like I’m going to drag you out in the woods and leave you there. Well, not right off, anyway.
And, in case anyone wants to know, for the record: Yes, as a matter of fact, I do own the state.
Elizabeth Peavey will be signing copies of her book, Maine & Me, at L.L. Bean in Freeport on June 10, from noon to 2:30. Stop by and say hi. Or, if you miss the signing, buy a copy of her book anyway. Reading it is the equivalent of being reintroduced into the wild, sans the bug bites.
