A Bit of a Dorothy Moment

I think it's easy to be romantic about the things you have left behind, but these days I have been remembering my home town with a nostalgia that leaves me more than a little homesick. Maybe it is a result of finally deciding to settle here, seeing the house that will become my new family home start to come together and becoming more and more habitable by the day. Maybe it's just because when you go through a rough patch you start to miss the familiar - those things that will remain unchanged regardless of whatever tragedy or mishap that may occur. Whatever the reason, I am enjoying looking back on the more wholesome aspects of my childhood in Maine.

Anyone who has been to New England can confirm there is something just a little magical about it. Rocky coastlines, evergreen forests, tiny fishing villages and fall foliage - a Normal Rockwell painting if e'er there was one. In spite of some of my sometimes unflattering descriptions of growing up, my physical environment was always picturesque. My mother fought hard to bring us out of the town and into the countryside, and from the age of 8 or 9 I was firmly rooted in a little village surrounded by the ocean on one side and the Piscataqua River on the other. The town had it's own country park full of wooded, riverside walks and a historical manor house surrounded by lush gardens. We may have always lived in tiny flats, but our back garden was the entire town. In the warmer months my sister AJ and I could walk or cycle everywhere, given the complete lack of a crime rate and the proximity of the majority of our friends.


Autumn in Maine is one of my favourite things in the world. Warm afternoons and cool evenings, apple picking trips with the whole family. Every so often you would get a day warm enough to go swimming again, and we would rush home from school to get to the pond before it was too late. In October the leaves would begin to turn, and the whole town came alive with bright reds, oranges and yellows. There is nothing more spectacular than New England trees in the Autumn.

At Halloween time we would go on hayrides and choose pumpkins. We raked the falling leaves into a great heap and jumped in them until we were exhausted. We sported our new winter clothes and braced ourselves for the first snow, which was undoubtedly not far away. November brought Thanksgiving, and the entire family piled around my grandmother's not-big-enough table and fought while eating more turkey and pie than one would think humanly possible. I coveted my seat at the grown-up table (the only one out of all the grandchildren) and waited for my grandfather's annual condemnation of the holiday: "All day cooking and its gone in ten fucking minutes!"

In Maine, winter comes in hard and fast. The first snow has usually been and gone before November, and by December you are wading through piles up to your calves. At my grandmother's house, AJ and I dug tunnels with the help our uncles and pretended we lived in an igloo. Snowy mornings were full of anticipation, as you never knew if school would be cancelled. We would refuse to get dressed before listening to the radio, determined that the would announce our school district amongst those who had cancelled classes. If a snow day was granted, we went sledding down whatever hills we could find, bundled from head to toe in endless layers of long-johns, sweaters and insulated coats. One of my friends had a hill in her back garden, and we would clamber to get there as soon as we could. After sledding, we would file into her living room, unloading our wet clothes on the wood stove and sitting patiently while her mother made hot chocolate. I think my favourite thing about winter in Maine is the sound. Snow crunching under your feet, icicles falling from trees, snow drifts falling from the roof - and the best of all, the complete stillness of a winter road, not yet fit for driving.


As much as winter was wonderful, it can be far too long. By March I was itching to shed my layers and feel the sunshine on my bare arms again. Spring comes late, but it comes none the less. After months of white roads and bare trees, the sight of green again is so exciting it's hard to stay indoors.

At Easter time AJ and I spent hours colouring hard-boiled eggs with our cousins, and eating them until we were sick to our stomachs. On Easter morning our dad and uncles would hide hollow plastic eggs all around the garden, filled with spare change (or sometimes a note mocking you for having found no cash). We used to sweep paths on the barely used road for our bicycles, pretending they were a network of highways featuring gas stations, schools and offices. We hunted for pine cones, leaves and acorns in the woods. In the later months of spring we picked strawberries and blackberries and brought them home to our papa, who mixed them with ice cream in the blender to make homemade shakes. But the very best thing about spring was that summer was on the way...

Summer was a dream. There was always at least one parent willing to take you to the beach for the day, and the afternoons were spent hunting through tide pools or swimming in the Atlantic Ocean - at temperatures so cold only a child would brave them.

There were homemade ice creams stands juxtaposed with the local Dairy Queen, and one or the other was a regular stop after a long and hard fought softball game. As we got older, we were allowed to ride our bikes to the local swimming pond with our friends. Climbing down the steep banks, we raced into the water and out to the island which featured a rope swing hung from a rather feeble tree. I was always too frightened to try the rope but I sprawled out on the island, looking back at the tree lined shore and laughing at whatever daring acrobatics were occurring. As a teenager we snuck out to the pond for night swims and the occasional (OK, only one occasion) skinny dip. The sky in a small town is so full of stars, and on a clear night the moon was plenty of light to see by. But my favourite part of summer was always the annual July 4th camping trip. Grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins all piled on to one campsite - swimming and canoeing all day, laying on the docks to dry off in the sunshine, BBQs for dinner and staying up later than usual to sit around the campfire. I remember when I was a child summer seemed so long, and I lapped up every moment of it.

Sometimes when I think about staying in Belfast, I think about my children missing out on all of these incredible things. I worry that I will never take them apple picking or sledding, that they won't know how amazing it is to look up every night and be able to pick out the constellations in a clear, starry sky. But then I remember how lucky I am to be able to share with my children both the life I knew than and the life I know now. They will get to see fall foliage and the Mourne Mountains, experience the joys of living in what is becoming a culturally vibrant city as well as the tranquility of a small country town. The joy of having to homes is just that - having two places you love and where you are loved. And that has got to be a good thing.