Twenty years ago I couldn’t have told you much about the Pine Tree State, never having been here or known anyone who had. I’d love nothing better than to spin you a yarn about how my move to Islesboro was the realization of a lifelong dream to live on the rugged and beautiful coast of Maine, isolated from the rest of this crazy world. But the true story is more a patchwork of haphazard happenstance.
My first glimpse of Maine was during my early 20s, traveling through the state on the way to Nova Scotia for a family vacation. We made two Maine stops on that trip. One was to eat a late dinner (where we sent our cold clam chowder back to the kitchen twice before finally pronouncing it hot enough to consume – thus receiving a loud round of applause from the kitchen), and another to peruse the goods at Perry’s Nut House.
It was 19 years ago on April 1 that my family and I arrived on Islesboro, direct from Queens, New York. My then-husband, Edward Bacon, had accepted the position of pastor at the Second Baptist Church. We’d been to the island only once before our move, for Ed’s practice sermon and a potluck dinner at the Masonic Hall, where we met and socialized with church and community members.
Jack Leach brought his truck and island moving crew from Islesboro to our Queens parsonage in late March, 1994, and loaded our belongings to transport them back. Our stuff didn’t fit in the truck, so we had to rent a small U-Haul trailer for the overflow. In the mad dash to get it all organized, we left Queens later than planned, so Ed missed his first Sunday at the new church – which, we learned later, was packed with islanders waiting to welcome the new minister and family.
Meanwhile, back in Queens, we furiously jammed our stuff into the U-Haul and, when it was full, our car. There was barely room for Ed, my son Michael, and myself in the front seat, with boxes piled in the back seat next to our befuddled golden retriever puppy, Heidi, and cranky black cat, Shatzie. After leaving the city traffic behind, we heaved a collective sigh of relief. That’s when it started to snow.
It snowed and it snowed, and it didn’t stop. On the Massachusetts Turnpike we slid off the road, joining a pile of cars already in the snow bank. The fact that we were so tightly jammed together must have saved us from injury because we were able to back up car and trailer and continue on our way. To add to the list of miseries, both Michael and I became violently ill with the flu.
We arrived on Islesboro off the last ferry at sunset on that April Fool’s Day. The ferry ride had been a little too rocky for me, and as I leaned against a maple tree in front of the parsonage to try and recover, my new neighbor from across the street came over to welcome us to the island. In the middle of her telling me how glad they were to see us, I suddenly couldn’t hold back, and lost my lunch right then and there, at her feet. I’ve mercifully forgotten her response, and to this day I’ve been too embarrassed to compare notes on the incident with her.
My memory gets a bit spotty at this point as to how we got beds set up for the night – I suspect we just slept on mattresses on the floor. What I do remember is how noisy it was. The peepers were out, and, being a city girl, I’d never heard such a racket. In Queens, we’d lived across the street from a police station, but the sirens and city commotion were nothing compared to these deafening frogs croaking. It took until the following year’s outbreak of peepers for me to even find out what they were.
I do remember we’d planned to buy a few groceries on the island, but didn’t realize that the stores, such as they were, would be closed after 5 p.m. I’ll never forget the feeling of opening that refrigerator door to find a loaf of Wonder Bread, a quart of milk and package of sliced American cheese. Nothing more. So much for our first meal as newly arrived island residents.
I also know we set up the television right away, because I watched some sort of talent show on the public television station on Sunday morning, being too sick to attend my first island church service. The show was perfectly dreadful. I began to wonder where the heck I’d landed. That feeling only intensified after being interviewed by the late Agatha Cabaniss for the local newspaper. I looked dazed and bewildered enough to prompt the ever-forthright Agatha to ask, “What in the world ever possessed you to move to Islesboro?” I’d like to find a copy of the article she wrote so I can read my reply.
After hearing this litany of tribulations about my horrendous move and first few days on Islesboro, you might wonder (as I do on occasion) what compelled me to stay, and why I continue to live here on the coast. Despite those difficult early times – and the ones to come of which I was still ignorant – I felt somehow destined to live here. The coast is beautiful in every season; there is great beauty and strength in this wild natural countryside and its surrounding waters. I feel that strength as it comes up through the ground to wind its arms around my heart and give me courage and hope.
Then there’s the nurturing and supportive island community which tumbled and twisted me, pushed and pulled me, held and loved me, and in a thousand small ways shaped me into the person I’ve become. I had no thought of moving to Islesboro to find myself. But that’s precisely what I found here – after the island had gotten through shaping me into a member of its community.
Bonnie L. Mowery-Oldham teaches at the Islesboro Central School. She now lives in Lincolnville.