Week Four : Childhood Memoir

I woke up to the distant humming of trucks and tractors. Being so used to only sleeping to the sounds of crickets and frogs, these loud mechanical noises were foreign for me to hear this time of morning. 

I uncurled myself from the fetal position I was sleeping in and leaned to look out the window. 

In the earliest moments of day, it seems like everything in the world is impossibly still. This particular morning, the sky was a few shades of a light blue and purple. You could see behind the pines where the sun was starting to rise. 

My dirt driveway was mangled with large tire tracks. It was then that I remembered why I heard those loud trucks. This morning was when the cutting started. 

Living on 96 acres of forest, my life has always been surrounded by trees. Recently, my dad was given an offer by a local logging company for them to come and clear out some of the trees in my backyard. 

The loud noises of the trucks continued and I quietly stood up. I tip-toed downstairs, wary not to wake Cindy. 

No one was awake yet. It was a little past 5 in the morning. Everything was quiet in the house, except for a few croaks and moans coming from the old beams. I grabbed a blanket off the couch, careful to avoid the sleeping dog, and walked barefoot onto the front porch. 

The air this Indian summer morning was a crisp surprise. I wrapped the blanket around my arms and followed the noises of the working trucks. I walked across the cold, dew-covered grass and sat on the picnic table in my yard. 

From this spot, I could see many of the trucks working on cutting down the trees. I could hear the beeps, the wheels turning, the chains rattling. It was loud and I didn't understand how anyone in the house could sleep. 

When Dad first announced that this cutting was going on, I was angry with him. How could he cut those trees? Those trees that have harbored so many memories. The trees I climb are being cut. At the time I didn't realize that Dad was getting a lot of money for doing this, and he was doing it for his family. 

As a kid I curled up and sat and wondered. I thought about how different my backyard would look without trees. How different my life would look without trees. For me, it was all I had ever known. The thought of being without it... was scary. 

So here, first thing in the morning as the sun was rising, I watched as trees were taken from my home. In a lot of ways, the weird feeling in the pit of my stomach was much more then just losing trees. I can't say goodbye to something that seems literally to have grown to be apart of me. It was an emptiness that I couldn't explain. 

A couple weeks later, I was sitting outside of my dad. We were looking out to the field that used to be a forest. In the middle of the field were a few tall and full maple trees. One of those trees became my favorite place. If you sat at the bottom of the tree, you could see almost every inch of the sky. 

My dad told me that he kept those trees there because him and Grampy used to tap those specific trees for maple syrup. I may never have found them if the other trees were cleared. That place became a place I went whenever I had to think. I'd sit at the bottom of the tree and work everything out in my head. It seemed to be the only place that was only mine. 

I think I learned early in life that things are constantly changing. I tried to fight change. I didn't want change. I wanted things to stay the same. But sometimes, just sometimes, change is the best thing. 

Week 3

I've never trusted technology. But on this specific day, I truly learned why.
Over the summer, I had an appointment with a woman at the college I'm transferring to. I had scheduled it months before, so naturally, I completely forgot about it until I got a phone call reminding me. I had to scramble to find someone to cover for me at work, I quickly packed up my stuff to head out and I punched the address into Tom, my GPS system.
I got my GPS for my 18th birthday. Mom and Dad thought it'd be good for me to have it while I was on my own. And for the most part, I could trust good ole' Tom. For the most part, Tom was helpful.
I can vividly remember calling my mother earlier that day.


"Mom, how do I get to Machias from Bangor?" 
"Just take Route 9. It's not too long of a trip." 
"Hmm... I'll just put it into my GPS." 

I should have listened to my Mom.
When I got into the car and started on my trip, I was excited. Not only was I touring and getting to meet with people about a school I was really interested in, it was a gorgeous summer day and I got to take a nice drive.
But apparently, my GPS felt like my drive had to be 3 and a half hours long.
It was the longest drive I have ever taken by myself.
Even though it was a long-ass drive, I couldn't have picked a better day to do it. The sky was unbelievably blue, the clouds were the perfect, puffy kind that peacefully floated from one side of the sky to the other. A bright sun prompted me to slide on some aviator sunglasses, and I rolled down my window and played my favorite country songs.
When the drive started, I saw it as a great opportunity to think. Organize my thoughts. Driving is one of the only opportunities in my busy little life I have to truly be alone with my thoughts.
I couldn't help but smile at how good the sun felt through that windshield. My hair wouldn't stay in one place; but neither would my thoughts.
So many thoughts an aspirations I had revolved around the road. The dreams of the places it was taking me; the thoughts of the places it could take me.
Travelling. Sometimes that means a plane ticket or a bus ticket, or even a boat. For me today it was the Oldsmobile that was over half my age, and a road that was even older.
Tom took me through Ellsworth, which was a little concerning to me because I knew that that was in the opposite direction of where I should be going. I sorta shrugged it off and continued on driving.
As I was directed to drive out of Ellsworth, I saw a sign that said 'Downeast and Acadia : scenic drive'. It's a sign that I've seen all over Washington County as a kid. I figured that that meant I was on the right track.
I sit back and relaxed.

The trip went on for over 3 hours. Confused when I realized that I was driving for way too long then I should, I called my mom again. She told me that Tom took me on a different route; one that actually takes you around the state to get to Machias. If I would have cut through Brewer and got on Route 9, my trip would've been only half as long.
On that trip, I saw places of the state I had never seen before. I drove through places such as the Blackwoods; a forest with a winding road in the middle of it. I drove through nothing but trees for miles and miles. A lake sits in the middle of a valley in this forest; and the sight is breathtaking. Later upon doing research, I learned that the Blackwoods forest is actually locally famous; and apparently haunted.
I drove through Cherryfield, another place I had never been. Rustic and looking like it came straight out of a time machine, Cherryfield was a sight. It's refreshing to see a place so simple.
Every thing I passed on my drive were things that people had forgotten about when caught up in the busy life in the city. Maybe I had even forgotten just how whole it feels to be surrounded by this simplicity. I had been so caught up in my new life that I had forgotten that wonderful feeling.
The drive was beautiful; but when I looked at the clock, I realized that I was definitely going to be late for my appointment. Tom was telling me I still had over an hour until I reached my destination.
I called the school and let them know I was running late, and after that I just sat back and enjoyed the ride. What other option was there? No reason to get frustrated now.
As I drove along, I realized just how winding and bumpy this road was. Once I got closer to the ocean, the road was clearly eroded from the salty air. Every hill I got to the top of, I could see the Atlantic ocean past the pine tree horizon.
I smiled to myself, and realized how much I needed this drive. I was balancing 3 jobs all summer working 15 hour days. A few hours to myself almost never happened. As I zipped over hills and around corners in my rattly old car, I was reassured and relaxed about my choice to come back to the area that will always be my home. Nowhere else in the world can you see sights like this. Such untouched, unfathomable beauty.
I still don't trust technology, and from time to time, Tom will still make mistakes and take me to the wrong destination or will tell me I've reached my destination and I'm nowhere near where I need to be. But I like to tell myself that on that specific day, Tom took me on that drive for a reason. I may have gotten a sunburn on the arm I kept hung out the window, but it was the longest drive I've ever taken by myself. And maybe also one of the most important.

(fun fact: I learned later that the specific drive I took was in National Geographic's top 500 most beautiful drives on the planet!)

Week 1 : a tribute to summer.

A day spent outside is never a day wasted. Especially during those sweet three summer months. The air is warmer, the sun is hotter and the days are longer. And, arguably, your spirit is a bit more alive.

Jumping from a bridge into a swimming hole, with your friends cheering you on, is certainly one way to spend a summer day. Another is riding a bike down hills and around corners of cracked pavement, the wind in your hair and the world flashing by you too fast for your eyes to catch it. Sunbathing on a blanket in the grass with a friend, a Cosmopolitan magazine and some sandwiches is another way to spend a summer day. Tubing on a lake, riding on the back of a jet-ski, riding in the bed of a pick-up truck, hiking through the woods... How many ways are there to enjoy the natural beauty that is summer?

Imagine that your bare feet are buried under the warm, luxurious sand. Close your eyes and you can almost feel the warm breeze against your skin. Wearing a pair of denim shorts, the sun against your bare legs. You open your eyes and a lake is spread out around you; as calm as ever, it creates a mirror-like image of the impossibly blue sky.

The faint smell of a campfire and pine trees travels with the wind. The radio sits on top of the over-turned canoe, the country station it was on turned down low enough to hear what song was on. You pick up a rock and throw it into the lake.

With a splash comes a ripple, and the ripple travels quickly on the surface of the water. Amazing, isn't it? How such a small thing can create such a big reaction.

Arms sore from canoeing, you pull yourself up and stretch your arms above your head, reviling in the freedom.

How perfect this entire place is.

Nothing is sweeter and crisper then that first breaking, waking moment of the early morning. This specific morning was decorated in dew and rain drops. The sky remained blue but the rain still fell.

Walking out of the tent, you're first embraced by the smell of a fresh summer rainfall. The air and sand beneath your feet wet, you step out of the thicket and into the clearing that faced the lake.

As if it was a canvas stretched out in front of you, the dark clouds and blue morning sky was home to a rainbow. You could see it's beginning and end, and it reflected off the lake to create two images of the same rainbow.

It was only there a minute or two before it faded. What if you hadn't woken up in time? You would have missed a future story you'd tell. 

An image like that, you can only sit and enjoy it.

As a girl, you sit on a rock in front of the bay and dip your toes in the cold, salty water. The night sky is as dark as ever and the water is an inky-black mass that is laid out in front of you. A huge moon reflects off the wavy water, and the millions of stars in the sky are the moon's faithful companions.

A crisp wind picks up. You hug your legs close to your chest.

I'd like to know just how many of those stars there are...

You think to yourself. You look up at the cloudless sky and can't even fathom beginning to count.

I wonder if you can see these many stars everywhere in the world. 

For some reason, you doubt it.

The waves are melodic tonight. It almost makes you sleepy; almost makes you want to go inside and tell Nana you're ready to bed.

But you want to sit here for a little while longer.

Watching the bay this time of night isn't exactly exciting. The tide is too high to walk about and look for shells. It's too dark to look for boats or seals.

But for some reason, on this August night, watching the waves is better then watching TV.

"I'm afraid!" You cry, jumping down from the edge of the bridge.

"You're scared?!" Your cousin calls up to you, "Seriously? This bridge really is less then 15 feet up."

"I haven't jumped off it since I was a kid though!" I yelled back.

"Then it's even less scary now!" One friend called up to you, "Just avoid jumping too far to the left or the right. You'll hit a bunch of rocks and die."

Everyone laughed except you. You pushed some hair behind your ears and looked down.

It really isn't that far...

"C'mon!" They all seem to say together.

Below the old wooden bridge is a small swimming hole. It branches off into a rocky brook that travels through the thick forest. To your left and your right is a seemingly endless dirt road.

You sigh and get back up on the edge of the bridge.

Your friends whoop and cheer as you prepare yourself for the jump.

I suppose you only live once.

You take a deep breath and jump, screaming your whole way down.

Week Two : A funeral on a hill.

         Somewhere along the winding, bumpy and old line on the map called Route 9, a tiny little farm house sat atop a hill. In the summer, the yard of the home is decorated with flowers and bushes of every color. The view from the back window of the house was a scene of green rolling hills; the kind of view where you could see for miles. On a sunny enough day, you could even see the shadows of the clouds in the sky on those hills. But today, it was snowy and cold. The overcast sky shown no sign of the sun. The air was too cold for comfort and there wasn’t a breath of wind. 
The driveway was overflowing with trucks and cars. People bundled up in their coats, gloves and scarves to fend off the January Maine cold. They all walked up the hill behind the house with solemn faces. Some were wearing black; some were in casual clothes. 
A man stood in front of three grave sites. He held a bible in covered hands; his aged face held a warm smile. 
Locals all gathered around. There were at least 60 people; almost all of them were ones you could easily run into at the general store and hold a conversation with, or ones you’d cheerfully sit down next to at a high school basketball game. Every person there was connected, not only by the gravestone that represented a lost life, but also by the place where you decided to hang your hat. They all chose a different little life; one without many luxuries and plenty of bumpy paths, sort of like this old Route 9. 
From the place where these people stood, the pine trees lined the horizon for as far as the eye could see. A young woman with dark hair, a polka-dot dress and an oversized camera bag scurried up the hill a little late. She greeted her family with hugs, kisses and kind words. 
A very famous Psalm was read once the ceremony started. The one about walking in the valley of the shadow of death, and knowing that you are not alone. Whoever this funeral was for, it was clear that they were never alone in life. 
The gravestones had names of them represented resting places of members of a family who wanted to be placed here on this hill. 
“Everyone in town could count on her,” The man with the bible says, “She was known by ‘Grammie’ to everyone, even if she wasn’t related to them. Her home was always open to everyone, and she was always there to help anyone in town who needed it.” 
Suddenly, a woman standing by the grave bursts into tears. She runs in front of everyone and embraces with another woman, muttering incoherent words. 
Once the short and very appropriate ceremony was over, everyone was invited into the little house to celebrate the life of Barbara. 
Three friends joined together on the walk back to the house. A blonde girl, the dark-haired girl with the polka-dot dress, and a young man in a black suit with a red tie. They all smiled and exchanged some words as the wind picked up and they seemed to shiver in unison. The one in the dress stopped to snap a few pictures with her camera. Once to the house, they entered together, still youthfully smiling. 
If it weren’t for the overwhelming bunch of people in the old house, you’d be able to see just how full of a home it already was. Pictures of family members decorated the walls as did hand-painted portraits of mountains and other beautiful scenes. Quilts, probably ones made by family members, were scattered on every chair, sofa and bed visible. Decorative plates hung on the walls with words that said happy 20th, 30th and 50th anniversary. Everything in the home seemed handmade and one of a kind.
Voices and laughs traveled through the walls of the home. Everyone knew each other’s names; everyone was happy to see one another. It was not only a celebration of life but also a reunion of sorts. The young friends all went to three separate and very different colleges. 
“She’s a ‘home girl’, my granddaughter.” An old woman with olive-toned skin said to another lady as she pointed to the girl in the polka-dot dress, “She’s been in the big city for a while but now she’s coming closer to home.” 
Families poured in and out of the doors of the house. Food was welcome to everyone, as was a place to rest your bones. There was either a cold soda or a hot coffee with your name on it, and food was practically forced in your hands. Everyone was family. 
The house creaked and shook because of all the activity, and the floor was clearly uneven and there was clearly not enough room. But no one seemed to care. Children bounced on the knees of their parents and toddlers curiously walked about looking up at all the new faces. It was a huge spectrum of every walk of life; rosy-cheeked babies, little girls in tutus, teenagers chatting in the corner, young adults sharing their college experiences, parents talking about the weather and the elderly reminiscing. Every step of life was here under one roof, and all because of one grim reason. 
Pictures of Barbara were all gathered together on a board in the full living room. The girl in the polka-dot dress stopped and peered at the board as she pushed her glasses up her nose. 
Clearly still very youthful, this selection of pictures made her smile. All of the pictures were collected from very beautiful parts of Barbara’s very full and well-lived life. Parts of her own life that have yet to arrive. As if it was a perfectly placed time line, you saw pictures of her as a young woman and you watched her age. Married for over 50 years and living until she was 85, Barbara clearly made an impact on the lives of many people. 
“She never did anything for herself,” A woman who sat in a chair near the fireplace said, “She was always doin’ things for others.” 
The girl in the polka-dot dress saw the sorrow and the equal amounts of happiness that surrounded her. The walls of this home had harbored many memories and much love; the young woman could only hope that she would someday hope that she could create a life this full. 
She was snapped out of her thoughts when a smiling face called her name. 
“Holliann! Over here!” 
It was one of her friends calling her to join a conversation. For a split second, she paused and seemed to be lost in thought. But whatever thought it was, it lasted only a moment. She joined her friend with a smile and a plate of food. 
The snow continued to fall slowly from the sky. It seemed as though the whole town was sitting together in the house. From every path of life, and every familiar face, a few hours were shared together to celebrate the end of a life of one of their own. 
There was no better way to do it. 

Rest in peace, Barbara Rhoades. 

Holliann Bergin :) An intro!

I moved to Penobscot county three short months after graduating from a Class D high school in Downeast Maine. My area defines the term 'small towns', so a place like Bangor was certainly a change in pace for me. Born and raised in Washington Country certainly taught me many valuable things about life, but I wanted to go somewhere new.
I went from living on a hill on the Bingo Road to living in the college town that is home to the University of Maine. I went from seeing all of my closest friends every single day to seeing them, hopefully, once a month. I went from eating dinner with Mom and Dad every night, to not. Blessed with a good family and friends, missing them is sometimes very painful for me. For two and a half years in high school, I worked at a grocery store where I experienced my first co-working family experience.
As a natural dreamer, optimist and whimsical person, moving out of Washington County was a whole new set of dreams for me. Once moving out, I quickly got a job working with children who have disabilities; a job that certainly did not come naturally to me, but I got the hang of it eventually. Gearing up to this job, I was nervous and afraid. It was nothing I had ever wanted for myself. Once I had gotten the hang of things, I realized it was a job I really loved. It showed me how much I love helping people, and how I can really do anything I set my mind too.
But working with children isn't my only passion. I've always dreamed of being a writer. For the entirety of my existence, writing was what I've wanted to do, in some way, shape or form. But as I got older, I also discovered that I had a certain flair for photography. In April and May, I'll be having my own photography exhibit at the Bangor Public Library.
This is my fourth and final semester at EMCC. In May, I'll be moving home to Waite, and in the fall I'll be going to the University of Mainea at Machias where I'll study creative writing. I've studied Liberal Studies and Early Childhood Education at EMCC, but creative writing has always been the major I've dreamed about.
I've had an overall positive experience at EMCC and in the Bangor area, but my wandering photographer feet are extremely excited to experience new things in a brand new area. After going out of my beloved Washington County for almost two years, I decided it was time to go back.