I’m now 24, and have lived on three continents in as many years. The first time my passport was stamped at the age of 20 marked a milestone in my life, and changed forever the path of my future. Study abroad, an almost reckless travel itinerary to date, and then serving as a Peace Corps Volunteer, one of the most remarkable transitions in my life seems a lot less noteworthy – moving from New Hampshire to Maine at the age of 16.
A pivotal time in any adolescence’s life, it was not changing high schools, making new friends or attending new classes that really affected me. Simply stated, although only a three hour drive away and crossing one state border, I met a starkly different culture. To some southern New Hampshire may seem to be part of the northern woods, as the only time it makes national news is during the primary season every four years, with reporters standing between five foot snow banks outside of a picturesque B&B in Bedford. But New Hampshire is a morning commute away from Boston and the technological hub encompassed by Rt 128. In the past few decades gone are the plethora of family farms, endless corn fields, and maple syrup shacks. Now Nashua has twice been chosen as the “Best place to live” by Money magazine.
So why should Maine be any different? After all I had grown up visiting family there every summer, and if anything the coast of Maine seemed more pretentious. Polo shirts and topsiders appeared to be the dress code, with annual lobster-bakes and 4th of July fireworks. I was eager to move to this Vacationland, and the day school finished in June I packed my bags and headed north, never looking back.
The summer was great, living with my father and enjoying days on the water. I was quite excited for the first day of school come the end of August, and came prepared; I had on my A&F khakis and polo, freshly waxed my car, and arrived to a whole new world.
Although within site of Rt 1, the disparities between the north and south sides were quickly apparent. On the south was the ocean, with million dollar homes inhabited for two to three months out of the year. Once I started actually looking though, I realized that even most of the “quaint” lobstermen actually lived inland, away from their coastal villages, forced out by demand for any land near the water. On this inland north side were farms, logging companies, and yes, even trailer parks. Needless to say, I immediately saw that I did not fit in.
It was a hard transformation as I found out that Carhartts were fashionable, that men were judged by the size of their truck, and that if there was any fun to be had, it had to be made. The closest movie theater was 45 minutes away, and mall an hour away. A classmate might be a long distance phone call, while winter temperatures of -20 were a norm.
Although remote, at times boring, and a world apart, I would not trade my time growing up in Maine for anything. I finally had for myself a romantic high school experience – skipping school to go mud-running, knowing teachers outside as well as inside the classroom, and even discovering down a dark dirt road that cars can be for more than just driving in. My new classmates took me in, teaching me how to ice fish; do donuts in an empty frozen parking lot; and even how to get my car out from the inevitability of getting stuck in the spring mud.
My friends in New Hampshire still had bonfires in the woods as we did in Maine, but with every phone call I could tell a bigger and bigger difference. I couldn’t place it at the time, but realized that it was simply a different outlook on life. In New Hampshire the focus was south, towards Boston – in Maine it was right in on itself. The old tradition of “just getting by” was quite prevalent everywhere, and the rules could certainly be bent for them. One day, as the vice principle called a friend of mine to his office for having a shotgun in his truck, I was sure that I would be saying goodbye to my friend. Instead he was just told to not do it again, or at least to put it behind his seat and out of sight.
All of this may seem minor, and in ways it is. Certainly the Austrian culture I moved to for eight months was vastly different, as is the village life that I now live in in Armenia, but it is in the subtleties that Maine is Maine. I knew coming to the Peace Corps that I would be entering a new way of life – with Maine I simply expected having to put more wood on the fire to stay warm. People there can be extremely friendly, or tell you to turn your Volvo around and go back to Massachusetts. Once let in though, the traditions are both endless and priceless. Although not necessarily taught by my own father, I cannot wait to pass down the Maine traditions to my own kids; may it be how to catch smelts (small fish) with their bare hands in the icy water, or simply that crossing the road to shovel out an elderly neighbor is not only expected, but the right thing to do.
