Week 6: Places

It wasn't the phone call out of the blue and filled with awkward pauses that wracked my nerves, or the two hour car ride via route 1A, past forests full of green summer leaves and tourist towns bustling with the influx of commerce from out of state. No, it wasn't either of these that really got those fluttering feelings in the pit of my stomach going; it was going passed Duck Puddle Pond, my Sunfire rocking crazily as it went down the a dirt road that had way too many potholes.


I almost felt bad, the rumble of my muffler along this quiet (some might say quaint) country road seemed really out of place with the road being surrounded by maples in full bloom competing with the ever present pine trees Maine is known for. At one point I laughingly thought the ducks that occupied the smooth waters of the local boat landing gave me a scathing look as I drove by, more than likely I was trying to focus on something else to keep my nervousness down; which the brilliant summer day and cool breeze didn't really make much of a dent in.


My dad and I hadn't parted on good terms, granted it really wasn't a good situation to begin with seeing as he was in the beginning stages of a messy divorce, but our last conversation besides our good byes had been him mostly yelling and me trying not to yell back. It was that last conversation I tried to keep from dwelling on as I turned onto the last stretch of unpaved road before the driveway. It really was a miserable stretch driving wise: the gravel had been plowed away years ago and left behind the hard packed dirt beneath which had accumulated nearly hellish dips and ruts from over taxed vehicles trying to make their way through during mud season. Now I just creeped along this stretch in an attempt to save what's left of my exhaust.


To my left I pass a row of old mail boxes fixed to a singular 2 x 4 and attached to a rather solid looking stump, six boxes all together make up a line of standard, rust pitted white, gray, and black. All save the third box from the left which is painted with what once must have been an almost gaudy splash of greens, yellows, purples, and reds designed to look like flowers and grass. The sun bleached blue that ran over the top of the small, aluminum box must surely have been modeled after the sky as the faded and stained interspersed whites would be clouds. This box, this painting, is one of the last remnants of my father's first wife, Robin. A brilliant woman who enjoyed life as much as any person I have ever met and probably the first adult that sat me down and talked with me like an equal over a cup of hot tea. I think we were talking about the universe and its infinite possibilities...pretty hefty stuff for a thirteen year old. She died almost seven years ago now of an aggressive brain tumor and companies still send her mail. I'm not sure if my father has the heart to tell them she's passed. I tilt the wheel to avoid another portal to the underworld and continue on along this grass lined road


Finally I reach the driveway but the going isn't much easier. The way is narrow, just large enough to fit a single car, and the center of the drive has risen with years or traffic. Trees hang lazily over the drive and cast odd shadows in the afternoon sun. Through the cracked window I can smell the scent of damp earth, grass, and pine; it's almost as if the forest itself has settled in to reclaim the property. The road twists and bends further and the ride remains rough, but somehow it becomes more comfortable, almost like settling into an old armchair. I edge my car around the final bend and crest the final rise, that's when the house proper comes into view.


Like the final bastion of some wilderness outpost my father's house looks out over the lake in a weathered, majestic manor, an above ground basement and two stories built in the cathedral style along with a large deck encircling the perimeter makes this a monster of a building. But for all it's majesty there is a sort of..faded quality too it. The cedar shingles are stained and faded, mildewed in places. The deck is dry and the color of ash with moss having nearly reclaimed a good portion of the southern side, only the front door retains a measure of its original beauty. I suppose this is what happens when you don't live in a home for five years.


As I pull in and throw the car into park the front door creeks open and my father steps out. He's dressed pretty much as I always remembered: Carpenters jeans, dark blue T shirt, and work boots, all of it covered in saw dust and other products of his work in the wood shop. There's a little more gray in his black hair but his face is creased in a smile. I get out of my car and can't help but grin when I see him.


"Hey!" he says "Long time no see....you hungry?"