Peaks Island, Maine

Sailboats moored near the Trefethen-Evergreen Improvement Association, Peaks Island

Having likely waxed on about other places that have become a part of me; Duxbury, the Isle of Wight, Newport,  Peaks Island has been neglected. 

Philip's, Nat's and my introduction was Labor Day weekend of 2002 when baby Nat had just realized she had the ability to take off her own hat, drunk as she was with the power to rip it off and throw it on the ground repeatedly. Portland was all new to us and we weren't sure where the ferry was, at a time when directions were printed out from Mapquest.  

A perfect place to be with babies, we new parents didn't feel we were missing anything because there was nothing really to do on Peaks Island. The quiet charm of rusty old cars with no license plates, pancake breakfasts and used things put out on the curb for the taking was the perfect antidote for our overwhelming lives. 

On our first four mile walk around the island, we came upon the Eight Maine Regiment Memorial, a large, functional Victorian with a wraparound porch, sitting on rocks that look out over islands and the Atlantic. We were with one of those people who forgets about everything else, becoming fascinated with whatever's in front of him, and he couldn't pass up going into this funny place to ask enough questions to make a chatty Mainer run for the hills. While the rest of us were bleary and wanted naps, he created a mental dossier shared over steel cut oat pancakes he made out of leftovers the next day (do not try this). By the time we left on Sunday, we'd booked a stay at the Eighth for the following Labor Day. 

The Eighth was built by veterans of the Civil War who fought in the Eighth Maine Regiment, wanting a place to have reunions afterwards. As they died off, their descendants inherited it, and for many years the house was kept privately. At some point, it was opened to the likes of us, though never publicly. With three floors, the top is all clean and tidy bedrooms that likely haven't changed since the 1960's. The main floor has one huge room with a big fireplace, some civil war memorabilia, many rocking chairs, games, puzzles, a ping pong table and a reading room. In the basement is the "kitchen", which in one area consists of a stove and much cooking equipment, in another,  for each family: a table, cabinet and wrought iron double burner from the 1920s that I was too scared to light.  There's a separate section dug straight into the sandy dirt holding about 10 refrigerators, one for each family. Most visitors are families and extended families, stays are typically for a week or two. We only ever went for Labor Day weekend but did so every year until 2019.

It was not an easy place to visit at first. There were so many rules. No bare feet, no noise after 10, no food or drinks anywhere but the kitchen, children must be quiet, no running, all tables must be set at all times, beds must be made, etc.  But over time, we got the kids to log on and keeping to the rules became part of the tradition. There was a grouchy descendant in charge, with his dad, who was old enough to have found a dead German floating by the shore when he was fishing as a kid during WW2. Turns out the younger guy was caught embezzling, but that's another story for another time.  These days,  there's a very nice lady in charge who can talk up a storm long enough to make you want to bite off your own arm to escape. But she's lovely and was wearing a sweatshirt that had a picture of snowmen roasting marshmallows on a bonfire with the comment "Bad Idea".

Over the years, rituals developed, and while there aren't any distractions on the island, we were always entertained. The kids had their first independent bike rides there, going to the store to buy candy or ice cream,. Walking around the island was an opportunity to discuss the merits of owning a house on the Atlantic or harbor side. We'd catch up on life, taking turns walking with one person or another, sometimes all together. One afternoon, the dads would take the kids to gather sticks and branches for a bonfire on the rocks. Most likely I was sitting on the porch watching the tankers go by. After some years, we discovered that we were welcome to leave money in the honor box at the  Trefethan-Evergreen Improvement Association tennis courts, providing us with a hit on some of the prettiest courts, with a backdrop of Maine islands, glass-like water and sailboats. 

Welcome to Peaks Island

View

Side porch, Eighth Maine

Much quality time happens here

Dear and earnest colors in the bedrooms

Main floor gathering space, civil war memorabilia on the right

Am partial to the pairing of mannequin, boots and uniform

Business

Dining quarters

So many people over so much time

Ready for a Maine breakfast. Fortunately Folgers is no longer served.

Noisemakers

Chores

Annual bonfire

Not sure why Weebly wants us to be sideways. Oh well.

Back at Emerson Park in Brookline, around the time that Nat was 2, I met a tall, beautiful woman named Uta, and her two kids. A transplant most recently from Atlanta and prior to that Virginia, she still struck me as 100% German, her heritage, and we hit it off immediately. I appreciated her calm and gentleness that didn't stress the small or big things. We did much with our kids for the two years she was in Brookline, frequently involving unsuccessful prompts for her to embrace the cold weather. We were heartbroken when she and her family left, eventually for Dallas where her husband began his surgical practice.  

While we intend to meet up regularly, the reality is that we don't see each other often and are both abysmal at being in touch. But occasionally the stars align and because she has fond feelings for New England, I seem to be able to lure her back this way, at least in summertime. So, it was with great happiness that I picked her up at Logan last Friday and we headed up north to Portland, where she had never been. Maine was putting on a show for her, providing a most beautiful mist that softened everything, providing mystery and excitement for our 20 minute ferry ride in the dark, eerily moving through the water with no sight of it or potential impediments. 

Over the years, people have reacted in various ways to the Eighth Maine, not all positively. Far from luxury accommodation, its strengths is its simplicity and originality. But I knew my German friend would take to it. And sure enough, it was as though she had been there for years, content as anyone for whom it had become a tradition, happy to not have an agenda or any distractions, unconcerned about weather, lunch or quality of the coffee. We walked, we talked, we sat on the porch (though the fog obscured), we combed through old junk someone had left on the curb and took a few books home. It was the most perfect time to revisit an old friend and visit with an old friend.