NOTES FROM THE HINTERLAND
THE BLESSINGS OF WINTER
By Laurie Meunier Graves
It is February, and winter has settled securely over central Maine, where I
live. The snow banks are too high to see over, and backing into the road
requires a slowness usually employed by elderly drivers. The backyard is
aflutter with birds—nuthatches, goldfinches, blue jays, purple finches,
and, of course, the small but stalwart chickadees. Crows, black against the
white snow, peck at the seed droppings, and the backyard seems so full of
life that I can hardly pull myself away. Around this small house in the
woods, the winter quiet competes with the conversation of the birds. To
paraphrase Bilbo Baggins from the movie The Fellowship of the Ring,
life goes on pretty much the way it always has, and Maine feels far removed
from the rest of the world.
Indeed, the November election has become a dim, unpleasant memory, something
to be pushed to the back of the mind. Watching the Sunday news shows is an
activity of the past as is reading the Washington Post and the
Note. I still do read the New York Times—I haven’t completely
lost interest in what’s happening “from away”—but I must confess that for
now, at least, I am happy to be enveloped by winter and its quietude and the
illusion that we are somehow separate from all that is going on everywhere
else. The chill of cabin fever, so rampant in Maine in February, has not
touched me, and I almost dread the passing of winter, despite the hardships
it brings.
Another blessing of winter is the absence of tourists. This makes me sound
like a native grump, I know, and, in truth, I really don’t have anything
against tourists as individuals. I can even understand why they want to come
to this beautiful rural state. I’d want to come here, too, if I were from
away. It’s just that in the summer there are too many of them, and they clog
the coast the way cholesterol clogs a fat man’s arteries. They crowd the
beaches, cause traffic congestion, and make getting a lobster roll at Red’s
Eats in Wiscasset all but impossible. I’ve lived in Maine for most of my
forty-seven years, and I still haven’t gotten one of those lobster rolls.
This makes me feel bitter—I won’t deny it—and to make a bad matter worse, by
the time the tourists have left in late October, Red’s Eats has closed for
the season. They do open in the spring, but in the spring most respectable
Mainers are preoccupied with gardening, and by the time the gardens are
settled, it’s mid-June or so. By then, the tourists are back again.
Still, there are many things that remain open on the Maine coast in the
winter, and on Saturdays, during this tourist-free season, my husband and I
often head to the ocean. If the day is sunny and relatively mild, we go to
Popham Beach, a long, smooth expanse of sandy beach unmarred, for the most
part, by development. The deep blue sky, the shining water, and the brisk
air come together to make a walk that dazzles the eye as well as the other
senses. Truly, winter is one of my favorite times to walk this beach, one of
the most beautiful in Maine.
Other times, we might head to Damariscotta, a small village on the edge of a
lovely tidal river by the same name. The downtown actually has some zip,
even in the winter, and there are restaurants, shops, and, best of all, a
good bookstore. So far, Damariscotta hasn’t been decimated by the big box
stores, even though there are a few of them on the outskirts of town. I am
of the firm belief that every village, no matter how small, needs a center
to anchor it and provide community. In Maine, we are lucky to have these
centers in many of our towns—my own town has one—but even here, they are an
endangered species, fighting for their survival against strip development. I
have read that in areas with large suburbs, downtowns are pretty much a
thing of the past. I try to imagine living in one of these centerless
communities with no place to gather for lunch and to gossip, no little
library in the center of town, no post office within easy walking distance.
It’s not a pretty picture.
However, on these winter Saturdays in midcoast Maine, there is no time to
brood about strip development or any of the other ills that come with modern
life. Because after our wanderings and meanderings, the walks and the poking
about in shops, all roads lead to one place, and that place is Moody’s Diner
on Route 1. At first glance, it might seem strange to feel this way about a
diner that is on Route 1, one of Maine’s most overdeveloped roads, laden
with tacky gift shops whose sole purpose in life is to separate tourists
from their money. Somehow, Moody’s Diner is able to transcend this handicap,
and it does so in two ways—through desserts and atmosphere. In fact, this
can be narrowed down even further to pies and atmosphere.
Among friends and family, it is a well-known fact that I am as devoted to
pie as some people are devoted to, say, wine or even coffee. Saturday is pie
day for me, and there is no better place to go than Moody’s Diner, where two
pieces of pie and two cups of coffee or tea come to about six dollars.
Sometimes I wonder if these excursions—the walks on the beach, the strolls
through town—are just an excuse to go to Moody’s Diner for pie. I push this
unwelcome thought from my mind as I settle into the wooden booth and study
the dessert menu with a concentration usually reserved for a mathematical
equation or a philosophical question. Chocolate cream or blueberry? Lemon
meringue or walnut? Sometimes there is even coconut cream. In fact, I love
them all—the flaky crusts that seem to elude so many cooks, the creamy
fillings, the tangy berries. What to choose? If the pieces were smaller, the
problem could be solved by ordering two pieces. But the pieces are what
might be called generous, and I have to settle on one selection.
Often it’s chocolate cream, which has a rich chocolate filling, the
above-mentioned flaky crust, and real whipped cream on top. While waiting
for my pie, I watch the waitresses, solid, middle-aged women who seem to
know nearly all the customers, who know who has gone to Florida and who has stayed
behind in Maine for yet another winter. Brisk and quick, they serve food,
clean tables, and let it be known when “there are no more plain onion rings.
All we have now is ‘Eye-talian’ ones.” And I would be willing to put some of
my hard-earned money down to bet that there is absolutely no disrespect
intended in that pronunciation. It’s just the way they pronounce “Italian.”
By 4:30 P.M. on a Saturday, Moody’s Diner is nearly full. By 5:00 P.M. there
is a waiting line. Last Saturday, I mentioned this to our waitress and she
replied, “Oh, yes, and tonight it’s going to be even worse. There are
toboggan competitions in Camden.”
I nodded, and when my pie (chocolate cream) and tea came, I ate with what
Robertson Davies might have called “a merry heart.” For awhile, I was able
to forget about President Bush and his plans to dismantle Social Security,
the ever-expanding deficit, North Korea, Iran, the war in Iraq, and the
United States refusal to join the Kyoto protocol. Instead, I was immersed in
a world of wooden booths, pie, and tea, and it was a very good place to be.
