With a health crisis enveloping much of the outside world, it is during such times that I am glad I live in a remote fishing village of a couple hundred or so souls. Port Clyde, America, as it is euphemistically referred to, is located at the very tip of the Saint George peninsula jutting into the Gulf of Maine. As a matter of course, we live far away from major airports, shopping malls, sports stadiums, and other large venues with crowds of people, thus minimizing our exposure. And Linda has since learned she can work remotely from home for the next couple of weeks.
Even before the “stuff hit the fan” this week, Linda and I were discussing how much we love the village vibe here. As a case in point, the other morning I called our local diner (located in the general store) to see if our favorite cook, Melissa, was back from her honeymoon so we could come for breakfast. Next, I called our postmistress (or female postmaster), Brie, at our post office to see about renewing our mailbox. And finally, I called the town office and spoke to the clerk, Patty, (whom I reminded we live at the lighthouse) to inquire about an upcoming event.
To further reinforce my point, after visiting our nearest Walmart, located off of the peninsula, and discovering that the hordes had cleared the store of all paper products, we returned to our beloved general store to stock up on the requisite toilet paper supply, which was plentiful. As none other than Mark Twain once observed, “If you want to know a man truly, get to know him in a village, not a city.” And for another of my ruminations about village life, I welcome readers to check out one of my earlier posts about the simpler lifestyle it engenders here.
In closure, I share some thoughts of a fellow Maine resident, renowned author Doris Grumbach, from her book Life in a Day: “I have become a minimalist of experience. Once I thought I could never travel to all the places I wanted to see, but in old age, the cove, in the variety of its seasons and weathers and times, seems to satisfy my need for new sights.”
And she quotes Somerset Maugham here: “Sometimes a man hits upon a place to which he mysteriously feels he belongs. Here is the home he sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never seen before, among men he has never known, as though they were familiar to him from his birth. Here at last he finds rest.”