The House in Maine, Part 2

Useful distractions

The other night I woke up in the middle of the night, heart pounding. A full-on panic attack, brought on by the current insanity. And that was before we found out that the current cabinet members in charge of our national defense and security are, as we suspected, unqualified morons.

My current fantasy is for Northeastlandia to join Canada.

It’s difficult in these times to feel like anything else matters besides near-term mental/physical survival. In times of darkness, I have always looked to work for stability, continuity, and a sense of purpose. My quiet, slightly untidy office is a world that feels safe enough, for now. Here I am surrounded by books and pictures and stones from Maine and others places, with a view of our garden, awakening now as the days grow longer and temperatures soften. I know that I cannot fix everything or maybe even anything that is part of the unfolding national chaos, but perhaps I can create something good within my own reach and power. As Voltaire writes in Candide, and I paraphrase, we can tend our own gardens. Can I do this while still remaining vigilant and engaged? I am trying to do this every day. In weak moments, when shit gets too real, I watch “White Lotus” recaps. At least one somebody will end up dead this season and I sure hope it isn’t Chelsea!

Meanwhile, we still own a property on the island in Maine where I’ve spent part of almost every summer since about 1994 or so. My daughter first visited in utero, then she was a crawling one-year-old, then a toddler. Their friends visited, our friends visited. Around this time of year, I dream of being on the island. I study the vintage map of the island framed in my bathroom, locate the house we bought, and remember an afternoon a few years ago when Clark and I sat on the rickety porch, soaking in the last warmth of an autumn sun. When this brutal reality wakes me up in the middle of the night, I try to return to dreamlife, the vision of a family home in a place where I have found peace and beauty.

Buying the property was madness, especially given the timing—fall of 2020, mid-pandemic. It’s hard to remember anything about that year, except that we made it to Maine. After we got home, a friend called to tell us that the property was for sale. A 19^th century cottage with a stupendous view of the harbor, in need of work. I already knew the house well, having admired it and its location during island walks. At first, we thought this was a renovation/restoration project. All seemed possible. We’ve done this already. We engaged a contractor, who tore off a collapsing extension tacked on sometime in the 1940s, judging from the window style. Inside, the old walls were crumbly, the wiring was a fire hazard, the staircase was sinking. But the light that filtered through the wavy glass windows was a gilded blessing.

Plan A was to prop up the original cottage and update the interior to code. The idea of saving an old island home was a joy, until we discovered that the foundation was but a pile of stones—beautiful pink granite stones from a local quarry—that had been slowly shifting and sliding into the cavity that functioned as dirt-floor crawl space. Our contractor told us that if we renovated in place, everything would be askew within a year.

Okay, no problem, onward to Plan B. We looked into picking up the house and setting it atop a new foundation. This seemed like an exciting adventure, until our contractor told us about the rot in the floor joists. Picking up the house to relocate it even a short distance would have been like trying to move a Jenga tower or, more likely, a game of matchsticks.

Plan C. We would have to take the house down. The house was dismantled, but we saved the upper beams that were still in good condition and a few other original elements we hoped to re-use. A brief period of mourning followed. Then we made plans to rebuild. The plans took some time, between permits and waiting for construction prices to stabilize post-pandemic. The hope was that after a few winters of salt air, wind, and rain, the new house would look much like the original. I haven’t forgotten the light in the original rooms and I hope to experience its beauty again.

To build a new house, you need a foundation. Finally, during these past weeks, our turn came. I never thought I could get excited about concrete, but I have come to appreciate a smooth pour. Our contractor tells us he worries that Trump’s tariffs will affect the price of lumber. Oh, Canada—until now I had no idea that most building lumber in the United States comes from our neighbor to the north, where the people are proud and defiant, and trees grow straight and strong.

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