April 17, 2009

In the flood of events yesterday, I forgot that I had started the penetration into Maine with a trip to S. Berwick, where I used to work at a tour guide at the Sarah Orne Jewett house. The house was closed, but the yard was a Cluny-work of bluets.

Renewed acquaintance with Portsmouth. All lay under a gleam of clear northern light. I’d forgotten how compact the town is, how you can park anywhere and reach any destination after a few minutes’ walking. Everyone talked of how perfect the weather was for the first day this year. I told them my garden was blooming in the South and I was not impressed. Haunted Prospect Park as I had done long ago, and walked into Maine over the viridian Piscataqua. That was a journey rich in remembrance, for when I had walked over the World War Memorial Bridge into Kittery in 1981, I did so thinking it was the beginning of a new life, a new vision of myself, to be memorialized in a big novel. Maybe it was a new beginning, and I would be otherwise now if I hadn’t made the trip. How to know? I did write the big novel here during my tenure as Bennett Fellow, though it languishes in a box on my shelf, and whatever its ultimate fate, I have not done well by it.

Phoned Mickey from the bank of the Piscataqua, thinking it was about the farthest I could get from her, and still be in America.

I do recall that I had briefly determined that I would abide in New England, in Portsmouth, and I visited places that I’d thought would be important to me as a resident. They’re mostly still there, a testament to the durability of the little city. I ate chowder under the white tower of the church on Congress Street just as its clock was chiming noon.