Follow the River Home

Walking along the Penobscot River at age 7 in Bangor, Maine, in 1978.

I was little. My younger brother Stephen was even littler. During the summer between my first and second grade years at Abraham Lincoln Elementary School, my Grammy Butcher took care of us while our parents were at work. We spent our vacation days like so many children of our generation, locked outside. These were the days when young people were seen and not heard, and although we were pretty sure Grammy loved us, she had no patience for the noise and fidgety antics of small children. Luckily for us, her neighborhood in the village of Veazie was packed with adventures just waiting for us to claim.

I fondly remember rolling down her grassy hill with my arms tucked tightly into my chest, feeling itchy from the overgrown lawn and fresh blackfly bites. She had a wall of lilac bushes behind her home with heart-shaped leaves and a dizzyingly sweet fragrance. Even as an adult, I am instantly transported to her backyard whenever I smell that flower. I recall shading myself under Grammy’s clothesline which stretched from her front steps to a pulley strapped to an old elm on the far side of her property. Grampy Butcher treated us to Cracker Jack sometimes when we accompanied him on his beer and tobacco runs to Lancaster’s Market. I can still taste the salty sweat of my forearm where I licked it to apply the temporary tattoo prize from the box of sweet popcorn and peanuts.

I regarded the Penobscot River with suspicion from her yard on the hill because she taught us to fear the potential danger if we got too close without proper adult supervision. It was necessary to teach us a fearful respect for the power of rushing water for our protection and our safety.

Across the narrow road from Grammy’s house was a natural playground we referred to as The Ledges. It included a babbling rocky brook which was guarded by an old crabapple tree heavy with tiny sour fruit that had worm holes and inevitably gave us the trots. We snuck into the mysterious forest in hopes of spotting Bigfoot or a sidehill gouger. Orange pine needles carpeted the shady paths and hushed our footsteps while we searched for wildlife or a rare arrowhead artifact. Stephen and I found rabbits, frogs, birds, and spiders, but we never found any harm. These were safe woods for us. The only trouble we ever found was a hangout for teens who left empties and graffiti to mark their territory and assert their fledgling autonomy. It was a wild contrast against the gentle natural environment, but one which was unfortunately common in those days.

At the time, we only had one car that ran, so my parents had to coordinate rides and share the vehicle. It was the same behemoth that so many of our families drove back in the day, a chocolate brown full-size Dodge van with a console that was perpetually sticky, either from spilled soda bottles or toppled beer cans, since there was no such thing as a cup holder in 1978, or a DUI. I remember my father swearing never to buy a Chrysler again as he cranked the ignition key repeatedly and pumped on the gas pedal, trying to bring the beast to life. We loved it when Dad removed the back seats so he could transport his dirt bikes. That meant we were free to surf the big hills in the cluttered, greasy, corrugated steel playground that had no side windows and smelled like 2-stroke motor oil. Stephen and I belted the Wipeout song as we navigated the treacherous terrain of Bangor’s Newberry Street on our feet in the back of the van. We took a wide stance, bent our knees, and held our little arms out for balance and protection, since there were no seatbelts in sight to keep us safe. Clearly, we had the essential surfing skills that would help us become successful adults one day.

On one particularly humid summer afternoon, my mother rode her 10-speed bicycle up Route 2 along the river to Veazie. She was coming to pick us up after a long shift at the hospital. A nurse’s job is essential, yet often thankless. Let’s hear it for the gifted medical professionals who follow their calling to help and to heal. It was normal for Mum to pick us up after work, but all the previous times she brought the van. On this day, my dad needed the van for some reason. Parents didn’t discuss their decision-making processes with their kids in the 1970s, so I have no idea why the van wasn’t available on this day. Mum was cheerful when she arrived at her mother-in-law’s house and explained to her young children that we were going on an adventure! We were going to walk the 4 miles home. To Elm Street. In Bangor. At the peak of summer temperatures. We had no concept of distance at that age, so we struck out on our journey with high hopes and empty hands. Our mother led us home while she pushed her bike along beside her. We had no water. We had no sunscreen. We had no idea what kind of summertime nightmare was awaiting us for the next few hours of travel on foot.

The miles added up as we hobbled our way to Bangor. We caught glimpses of the rushing river and marked our progress with landmarks like Veazie’s wooden bridge, Mount Hope Cemetery, and the Riverview Motel-No Tell. We found encouragement in the consistent driving flow of the river which rushed toward home and showed us the way to comfort and safety. We paused many times to rest in the shade. Mum apologized to us over and over for making us walk so far. We cried, all three of us, the muddy tracks on our cheeks drew lines from our eyes to our shirt collars. Cars rushed by on their bustling way to get groceries or whatever distraction kept them from noticing a frustrated mother and her two sweaty babies.

We came upon Cascade Park late in the afternoon. Mum assessed the emotional, mental, and medical needs of her young family and gave us the most amazing news I had ever heard in my few years on the planet. She told us to wade in the fountain! I protested that I didn’t have my swimming suit. She insisted that we cool off in the tiny pool, which was painted light blue and constructed out of concrete. It took some convincing to get me to break the rules and enter the water fully clothed, but once my toes touched that refreshing liquid, I abandoned all propriety. I ventured into Cascade’s fountain, sharing my shallow swim with the floating bugs, and trying not to disturb the discarded litter and wishing coins resting on the bottom. I never in my wildest dreams thought I would have the full endorsement from my mother to take a dip in a public fountain. People stared. She didn’t care.

We were going to be okay. Home was not much farther. We had endured the discomfort of heat, thirst, and are-we-there-yet. The remainder of our journey was spent in higher spirits and lower core temps. Relief was in sight. We would sleep well that night.

This miserable day turned into a magical dream come true. The Penobscot led us home to security and comfort. Bruce Lee is famously quoted as saying “[water] can flow or it can crash.” It can have the grace of a gentle trickle, or it can be a mighty force of destruction. The influence water has is all in the perception and the application. The hazardous conditions that Grammy Butcher warned me about in my youth were equally as true and valuable as the guidance and comfort my mother taught me to draw from it on this hot day in the sun.

The river knew the way all along. The Penobscot would always show me the way home.