Down the coast of Maine

(Top to bottom)
Photo 1: Getting my bearings

Photo 2: The blueberry barrens outside Machias.

Photo 3: The Road to Nowhere (aka, Lubec).

Photo 4: Helen's: Home of Maine's best blueberry pie.

Maine seems like a large state, especially when you travel east and west. In reality, however, Maine’s land mass is 39th in size, compared to the other 49 states. This fact alone makes me appreciate the sheer size of the rest of the country.

Downeastern Maine has its own folklore and the deeper you drive “down” the coast, the more parochial and distinct the area becomes, particularly compared to trendy Portland, the state’s hub. Washington County, Maine’s easternmost county, has the dubious honor of being the poorest of the state’s 16 regions, or counties.

Tucked away from the rest of Maine, the state’s most geographically isolated area is also known for its distinctive culture, traditional industries such as fishing and logging, as well as blueberry barrens—it also has the state’s highest unemployment rate, which in 2002, was touching 9 percent, double the state average.

While the natural beauty of the region is breathtaking, most of the inhabitants are too busy scratching out a living to pay particular attention.

As I began my 56 mile trek towards Machias, on barren stretches of U.S. Route 1, which leaves Ellsworth, the summer’s tourist mecca, for the deeper regions and points eastward, I passed the entrance to Acadia National Park, New England’s only representative of the nation’s system of parks. As a native Mainer, I’ve only been up Cadillac Mountain once in my life. I rarely venture near Ellsworth, or other so-called tourist attractions in the summer. Partly due to my distaste of crowds, but also, the summer is usually taken up with other pursuits. Even picturesque Bar Harbor, a magnet for the summer hordes from away, is a place I’ve only been to a handful of times, most often, in the fall, or dead of winter, when the tourists have scurried back to their places of origin and commerce.

Many Maine writers have attempted to capture this part of the state. None comes closer, in my opinion, in capturing the quirks, culture and unique way of life of the region, than the late Ruth Moore. Born in 1903, Moore wrote about the people and places that even today, still evokes some sense of distinction, in a culture increasingly homogenized and processed. While Moore is often characterized as a regional writer—a label she came to detest—her writing captures the geographical place of her birth and life, as well as any writer before her, or since.

As often happens with writers, Moore’s reviewers often missed her social critique and commentary on Downeast life that characterized her works. Like Sarah Orne Jewett before her, Moore’s characters and places in her books, stood as testaments to a rural way of life, straining to maintain a foothold, in the face of encroaching industrialization.

On my return journey from Machias, I stopped in Ellsworth, Tuesday afternoon, and found the town library. Between appointments, I spent about 30 minutes reading some correspondence, in the form of letters, that have been gathered from Moore’s life. High Clouds Soaring, Storm Clouds Driven Low: The Letters of Ruth Moore (Blackberry Press, 1993) contains over 500 pages of correspondence that Moore had with writers, editors, and other local figures throughout her life. Edited by a fine local writer in his own right, Sanford Phippen, a regionalist and a contemporary of other writers, like Carolyn Chute.

My trip was long and the initial driving tricky, from the aftermath of Sunday’s northeaster, but it was worthwhile on several fronts. It provided some needed income from my contract marketing work that I do for Maine’s premiere help wanted website. The trip also afforded me a chance to visit an area of my home state that I don’t see often enough; plus, I dropped off some books, and taped a segment for a vibrant community radio station, WERU, in East Orland. And maybe the best part, I got to partake of Helen’s Blueberry Pie in Machias, Monday night. If you are ever in this part of the state, drive through town and look for Helen’s Restaurant on the right. With down home cooking, fresh seafood and unbelievable reasonable prices, it’s better than most of the upscale and overly-hyped places of southern Maine.

Back from the far-flung reaches

I'm just back from the far eastern reaches of downeast Maine, namely Machias. Spending hours alone in the car, driving deserted stretches of windswept Route 1 does funny things to your psyche. Past blueberry fields, lobster boats blocked up in yards and ramshackle houses, reminded me that I was no longer in the gilded environs of southern Maine, namely Portland proper. Per usual, my thoughts ran to issues that I know just enough about to be dangerous.

I have some photos that I want to post and also, I hope I can craft some cogent commentary and gather my thoughts enough for an enlightened post. Unfortunately, I'm scurrying to catch my tail today, so blogging must wait.

Here, at least, is a link to a topic I encountered in my travels. The bureaucrats in Augusta, mostly from the more affluent communities, are carping about waste in education, so they are pushing hard for the closing or consolidation of rural schools. Per usual, Working Waterfront has some good Maine-based reporting on an issue that could be devastating for many places that have only the local school holding their communities together.

The personal economics of writing

The posts have been sparse this week. I’m not real happy about this development, but I’ve been pulled in multiple directions and the one thing I could let go of, without dropping all the other balls I have in the air, has been the blog.

I’m in a difficult patch. With the Christmas book shipping flurry past, things have come to a clanging halt. I’ve reached an impasse, with both RiverVision Press, as well as my finances. Sadly, I’m not one of those lucky souls that can piece together a living solely on the basis of their writing. I’m not sure many in Maine can, and do. There are enormously talented writers like Stephen King, who is adored by the masses, as well as others, like Tess Gerritsen, who regularly make the best-seller lists. Obviously, their talent and ability to write fiction that is coveted by millions, allows them to live comfortably as full-time writers. I’m somewhat envious of that, but I don’t begrudge them their place at the front of Maine's writing roll call. While they are gifted and the market has rewarded them richly for their skills, I also recognize that being dependent solely on writing for their livelihood, probably brings with it own anxiety and stress, as well .

Then, there are folks like me, who write, but choose arcane subject matter and the history of small town Maine to prattle on about. While I’m pleased that I’m halfway through my small press run of 2,000 books, selling books in small numbers is not a money-making proposition. By the time the printing, shipping and small amount of marketing of a book is done, there isn’t much left over, if anything at all.

The winter doldrums of early February, and a review of my bank account, made me realize that I need to ramp up the money-making apparatus a notch. Putting my writing and some of my anticipated projects on the back burner, I’ve cobble together some of my skills—mostly marketing and sales, coupled with my writing and editorial experience—and have been involved in a special project for a local newspaper. With my other part-time marketing gig, I’m now spending much of my waking hours given solely to the task of making money. Obviously, most other people are forced to do the same, so who the hell am I to think I’m any different. For the time being, RiverVision Press has been relegated to my evenings, weekends and any other time I can focus on my various projects I hope to launch via Maine's unique (and underfunded) press.
In some ways, this is probably good. I think it was former Black Flag front man, Chuck Dukowski, who said that he’d rather work a day job the rest of his life, than be dependent on his music to make a living. I think I recall Ian Mackaye, of Fugazi, saying something similar, intimating that the act of commerce compromises art, for art’s sake. I don’t know if I can agree wholeheartedly. I wouldn’t turn down the opportunity to publish books full-time, if I knew I could live a couple of steps removed from homelessness. I'm also not comfortable expecting my wife to graciously shoulder so much of the financial burden.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this—I’m financially strapped and have taken a course of action to alleviate some of the problems associated with that predicament. I’m not looking for sympathy; I’m merely recognizing that I just don’t seem to have the talent or connections to rely on my writing to make enough money to keep a roof over my head. This isn’t an admission of failure, but more, recognition of the reality of my situation. Like any proactive person, I’ve taken steps to right the ship.

Hopefully, I still have time and energy, as well as something to say that’s worth blogging about.

Grandpa Munster has left the room

In what's shaping up as a busy week for me, I won't have much time to be posting on either blog. I did want to put this up, however. Democracy Now had a great segment on Al Lewis, the actor who played Grandpa on the 1960s Hollywood sitcom, The Munsters. He passed away, Friday, February 5, 2006, at the age of 95 years old.

While mainstream accounts emphasized his work on the popular sitcom, to the exclusion of all else, several alternative accounts of Lewis revealed him to be something much more than a mere actor, playing a bit part.

Like many men of his generation, Lewis was shaped by a hardscrabble life, which included experiencing the depression firsthand. Unlike many of us, who grew up during the post-war period of affluence, he didn't live life with our expectation of everything being handed to us on a silver platter. He took life by the horns and squeezed the most out of each and every day.

The 1997 interview conducted by the editors of New York's Anarchist publication, The Shadow, originally ran in Alternative Press Review, back in 1998. It is a great read and captures the essence of the man foreever known to many as "Grandpa Munster."

One of my favorite parts of the interview is when Lewis chastises today's self-styled activists for their lack of perspective and understanding of the class war.

I think Lewis' offers a perspective that isn't offered much anymore, the perspective of a man who lived life to the fullest, on his terms, not the terms dictated by polite society. He offers a portrait of a generation that sadly, is just about gone. If our nation had any greatness, it was because of the men (and women) of Lewis' generation.

My hope for America

Rather than a blow-by-blow of the President Bush’s speech, I wanted to focus on one word and attribute that he uttered several times. This is my concise contribution at recapping the SOTU, for those of you who skipped it.

While painful, I hung in to the bitter end. Towards the end of his oratory, he apparently decided to offer the citizenry some hope, because up to this point in the speech, I hadn't found anything that I was hitching my wagon to. Beginning the sectionwith this; “In recent years, America has become a more hopeful nation.” After this, he indicated where American's hopes should reside.

“A hopeful society depends on courts that deliver equal justice under the law.”
--With a court stacked with right-wing ideologues and lackeys to carry the water of a conservative agenda and under gird the final corporate takeover, I’m not hopeful about our future in the area of justice.

“A hopeful society has institutions of science and medicine that do not cut ethical corners, and that recognize the matchless value of every life.”
--An obvious ode to his pro-life base, uttered in code, but obvious in its intent. For those like the late Christopher Reeves, and others suffering permanent debilitating injuries, stem cell research offers hope of a possible cure and an opportunity of living a life of fullness. This president insists on removing that hope.

“A hopeful society expects elected officials to uphold the public trust.”
--And since this president heads an administration riddled with cronyism the likes of which America hasn’t seen for decades, we aren’t hopeful that the president will do anything meaningful to instill some hope for those of us who think our elected officials should obey the laws and honor the constitution like the rest of us are required to.


“A hopeful society gives special attention to children who lack direction and love.”
--Actually, under funding programs that level the playing field for all children might give us the optimism that you insist we ought to have. Not enacting the disastrous, No Child Left Behind that leaves schools and programs grossly short of funds and forced to implement rigid pedagogy that robs children of the joys that creative instruction can bring.

“A hopeful society comes to the aid of fellow citizens in times of suffering and emergency -- and stays at it until they're back on their feet.”
--Actually, Mr. President, your administration’s and handling of disaster relief in the aftermath of Katrina, made me hope to God that I never face a disaster of those proportions. For nights on end, I saw witnessed the poorest citizens dying in the streets of one of our largest cities, while you lauded one of your political cronies, Michael Brown, who was under qualified and incapable of running FEMA.

Mr. President, your speech, full of lies, propaganda and once again, pandering to fear and offering nothing but empty rhetoric, left me and many other Americans with only one hope. That we the people will wake up, band together and run your ass, along with your administration's, out of the people’s house. That’s the glimmer of hope I’m clinging to, the morning after your speech.