The Power of Place

When I started to drive for the ambulance service, and was heading for the MDI Hospital, I was instructed to radio ahead when I turned onto Eagle Lake Road letting them know that I had just rounded “RA Corner.” “Don’t call it Raggedy Ass Corner, even though everybody does,” said my instructor. “You’re not allowed to say “ass” on the public airwaves.” OK,  I thought.

Where the heck did that name come from? Was it the winding hilly road that formed a T with Eagle Lake Road? Was it the fact that there was no way to really take the corner in an elegant manner regardless of which way you intended to turn? Was it the old slouchy junk-ridden barn that used to stand on the corner? It is a purely local name, not found on any map of the area, but occasionally referred to in descriptions of the MDI Marathon route. Like so many things, it’s gotten me thinking about how we identify locals.

In Westport, Mass. there was a road pronounced “Schlotty Wite Road.” I had grown up hearing about people who lived on that road, some without power or plumbing, who were “no better than they should be.” Years later on a tour to help us remember where we came from, our parents chanced to drive down that road reminiscing about some of the famous skinflints who had lived there. Later on a grocery run for my grandparents there was talk about the new development off “Charlotte White Rd.” Private comments, later in the car, let me know that my folks didn’t think too much of that sort of newcomer, who just moved in and voted in changes in zoning “like nobody’s business.” “How do you know he was a newcomer?” I asked. “Well, he didn’t know how to pronounce the name of the road he lived on.” “I would never have guessed that ‘Schlotty Wite’ and ‘Charlotte White’ were the same thing.” They looked at me sadly, as if I had lost my way. The irony of this is that my folks had moved us to Maine, where the sense of being from “away” is even more restrictive than it ever was in Westport.

In Orono there is “Fudgies” which is now known as “The Big Apple.” In Somesville there is “On The Run” which used to be “The One Stop” which used to be “Fernalds” which moved from “the place Fernald’s used to be” at the head of an inlet off Somes Sound, which became “Port-in-a-Storm” bookstore, which is now some kind of antique artsy place with no visible name. These are all places where one business has flowed into another. There are others where the entire purpose has changed. In one town there is “the skating rink” which used to be “the opera house” and now houses an IGA. Some places actually give a nod to their former iteration, like the School House Apartments. I was confused, when I was in Jonesport, by places referred to as “Nellie’s” or “Ab’s” that had no outward label that hinted at the connection. These places, just like Fernald’s are more important for their founders than locations. It certainly made me understand that I was truly from away.

A couple of weeks ago I found myself caught in this bind of being local or not. After a two year hiatus, I have moved back to the town where I married, had kids, and established two fairly different careers. I am known here. During our sojourn Downeast, I was particularly aware of the ties I had to MDI and Southwest Harbor. My spinning group is still centered here. I know and am recognized when I go into the post office. Kids I taught in school are now managers at local stores. I see parents from my own children’s high school classes and we trade news about how and what our kids are doing. It took me eight or ten years to build this sense of community, and another dozen to bask quietly in its comfort. There is none of that, yet, Downeast.

I remained mindful of the fact that I am from away; I am not, to paraphrase Tim Samples, that cat who believes I’m a biscuit just because I’ve spent time in the oven. Still and all, I feel a sense of belonging. So when I walked into the library to enquire about restarting the Wednesday night knitting group, I was a little surprised to be met with a definite who-are-you-anyway attitude. Not by the people who had seen me, as a young mother, shush my kids; or the ones who remembered my $55 library fine; or the ones who I had known before they were married with kids of their own. But I found myself saying “You may not know me, but I’ve only been gone two years and really do consider myself local.”