Here is an image to consider in mid-summer, when Maine islands are busy places and every bunk is full:
Sometimes, in the winter, you can walk the ridge road the length of Matinicus and not encounter a soul.
You might not notice a single light in a window, or wave to the driver of a single unmufflered pickup truck. From the airstrip on the north end, almost two miles to the South Sandy Beach and the nature trail—from where you have an unobstructed view toward the Dominican Republic—you might hear nothing but the sound of your own footsteps. It is a delight to walk in solitude. I have enjoyed that experience here many times.
On the other hand, if you’re trying to maintain an identity as a functioning municipality, all that solitude gets a bit sketchy. The population of Matinicus drops below what you might call “critical mass” in the winter, and we hear that Monhegan, Isle au Haut, Frenchboro, Cliff Island and some of the others are experiencing the same thing.
By Election Day in November, few citizens remain to help the ballot clerks eat the doughnuts. Some of those who do stay the winter more or less “hole up,” rarely interacting with anybody outside of their fixed daily routine. That’s easy to do on an island. Most of those who do the physical work to keep the town going are into middle age. There is a distinct shortage of young assistants, protégés and apprentices preparing to take over the responsibilities. Generally our young people have two options: catch lobsters or leave.
We can laugh about our random community of misfits, curmudgeons, anarchists and overcommitted multi-taskers but we work hard to be here, and we call this place our home “town” even though it hasn’t quite got that legal status. We go on assuming we shall always be here, but it can be hard to stay. It takes more than wanting to be here; it requires a considerable effort.
For that reason, the psychology of community looms large. We battle the entropy and the attrition and the high cost of diesel fuel with a strange pride in our peculiarity. It might seem silly, but it’s probably necessary. We aren’t “one big happy family” and we don’t “know everything about each other;” in fact, we rarely feel a genuine sense of unity. But one happy occasion this spring provided a perfect excuse for that much-needed community bonding and defiance of our evident shrinkage.
On June 14, Flag Day, almost 50 people gathered in the schoolhouse on Matinicus to celebrate a very special event: one of our small number had just become a United States citizen. Craig MacLeod, from New Zealand by way of Australia, who still speaks with his gentle Kiwi accent, was treated to a rousing “Welcome to America” by his island neighbors.
We had a table loaded with apple pies, red-white-and-blue stars everywhere, and little Skylar, just graduated from kindergarten, leading Craig somberly through the Pledge of Allegiance. It takes an effort to become a U.S. citizen; Craig’s wish to do it simply made us feel good.
People showed up in stars-and-stripes hats and American flag socks; they brought star-sprinkled cakes and patriotic paper plates and nearly every hand held either a flag or a camera. There were songs and smiles and lots of full bellies, and perhaps significantly, there were people in that schoolroom who had little use for each other. That wasn’t important. They kept their politics to themselves and all enjoyed a good time. We were all there to share in the spirit of the day, not to socialize exclusively with our own little clique. Native or transplant, drunk or sober, all waved the flag and cheered together for someone who wanted to be one of us.
When you can sometimes count your neighbors on your fingers and toes, a day like that means a lot. I think most of us knew it, too.
Eva Murray has lived year-round on Matinicus for 26 years this August.