Mourning for Maine

​I take it very personally that Maine has been jolted by the prototypical American disturbed-man -with-military-weapon (empowered by far too many politicians.)

He’s gone now, a suicide near a recycling plant, but he has befouled an entire swath of Maine, beyond the Lewiston area, where he shot up a bowling alley and a bar on a normal Wednesday night in the fall.

On Friday night I sent out a few e-mails to friends we have made in the past decade, in the Bath-Brunswick area, an hour or so from Lewiston. Not far at all.

I learned that a friend I have made – a deaf man with whom I have communicated via texts on our phones, making each other smile or nod agreement from across the table of a restaurant with friends. alongside the Kennebec River in Bath.

In that small world, my friend was close to Bryan MacFarlane, another activist in the deaf community, who was with an outing of youngsters when evil roared into their lives. RIP, Bryan MacFarlane. RIP, some sense of safety and innocence in Maine. I take it personally.

We became loyal Mainers a decade ago when we visited Marianne’s uncle Harold in his cottage alongside the Kennebec River in Bath. He was a marvelous tour guide – he had come from Connecticut as a teen-ager to help dredge the river, married a local girl, and stayed.

​Harold took us to a Civil War outpost along the coast, to a cemetery in Richmond with its monuments in Russian, from Belarus settlers a century ago, and he drove past buildings and farm chicken houses and even some small fishing boats he had constructed in his basement, with his hands and his ingenuity.

One day we drove Harold to a specialist in Lewiston, and later we drove around and noticed the large Somali neighborhood – maybe 5,000 settlers – upgrading the old brick mills and apartment buildings, with grocery stores and Somali social agencies. So much to see and learn in Maine.

Somali Market, Lewiston, Maine

Harold has since passed, but we retain our friends, even in our absentia during the pandemic. I emailed another friend Friday evening to see how she was doing, and she knew all about the killer, his deterioration unchecked by people who monitored him. 

We have so many good memories – the Winnegance Restaurant, south of Bath, on a hill, great seafood, and a view of the ships on the Kennebec;  J.R. Maxwell on the main street in Bath, just up the hill from the sign denoting the Povich clothing store  (yes, that Povich family.) And the Bangkok Restaurant in the refurbished brick mill alongside the Androscoggin River, flowing down from Lewiston.

Povich Family sign, across the street from Maxwell restaurant, sunset, Bath, Maine.

And the wonderful Bowdoin College Museum of Art in Brunswick – always a new exhibit, with helpful staff.  On our visits, we could envision some kind of new, other life (within walking distance of that gallery.)
But it was a bit late to re-settle our lives, away from families. So we would stay in the Fairfield Inn between Freeport and Brunswick, with its buffet breakfast and diverse clientele – college sports teams, military personnel, and tourists.
I remember an Italian family, two parents and a young woman in a wheelchair, and because I am blessed to know a few phrases in Italian, I asked what brought them to Maine in October and the young woman in the wheelchair said, “I colori.” (The colors.)

It is autumn again – 67 degrees and sunny in Bath as of Saturday, 11 AM –and my wife and I are mourning – for the families and friends of the fallen, for the disturbed sense of safety and order, for Maine. And we are not alone.

One of our late-in-life friends wrote to me Friday night:
“Every time we have one of these shootings, there is a hue and cry for gun control. It never happens. There is no one and nowhere that is safe anymore. In 2022, in the entire state of Maine, there were 29 murders. The whole state is in shock. Our innocence has been shattered with one horrific act. It’s a tragedy in so many ways. My heart is broken.”

In absentia from our “other” home, our hearts are broken, also.