Maine, the Hard Way
My father passed away earlier today. That's something I didn't expect to find myself saying or writing just yet: he was 78, which isn't all that old for my kin. Most of the cantankerous, flinty old New Englanders that occupy my family tree tend to reach at least their 90s, and one great-grandparent made it to the ripe old age of 101. But my father wasn't ever content to sit still for any length of time longer than the duration of a Red Sox game, and he was happiest when he was out in the wilds, doing something active like chopping wood, cross-country skiing, hiking mountains, fishing or canoeing. So maybe, his doctor surmises, he overdid it (and maybe he should have laid off the eggs, steak, ice cream, butter and sausage just a little, too). Regardless, he died peacefully in his sleep at the little camp deep in the Maine woods that he loved more than any other place on earth, not far from where he was born.
Curiously, his birthplace vanished decades ago, swallowed up by the waters of Flagstaff Lake when the Central Maine Power company constructed Long Falls Dam on the Dead River. In the shallows of the lake you can still find remnants from those villages; an old rusty horseshoe here, a cookstove kettle or house foundation there. He loved that patch of country, and his camp, better than any other place on earth. The buildings, cemeteries and people of the town of Flagstaff--so named because Benedict Arnold is said to have raised a flag there during his march north to Quebec in 1775--was moved to higher ground overlooking the lake, but the specter of their drowned home has, I think, haunted all its former residents all their lives.
Melissa and I are traveling to Maine this weekend for the service. We just got the flight squared away, and now it's on to the other details. We may be a little slow to respond over the next few days, so I want to thank you in advance for your good wishes and thoughts.
Curiously, his birthplace vanished decades ago, swallowed up by the waters of Flagstaff Lake when the Central Maine Power company constructed Long Falls Dam on the Dead River. In the shallows of the lake you can still find remnants from those villages; an old rusty horseshoe here, a cookstove kettle or house foundation there. He loved that patch of country, and his camp, better than any other place on earth. The buildings, cemeteries and people of the town of Flagstaff--so named because Benedict Arnold is said to have raised a flag there during his march north to Quebec in 1775--was moved to higher ground overlooking the lake, but the specter of their drowned home has, I think, haunted all its former residents all their lives.
Melissa and I are traveling to Maine this weekend for the service. We just got the flight squared away, and now it's on to the other details. We may be a little slow to respond over the next few days, so I want to thank you in advance for your good wishes and thoughts.