San Diego Union-Tribune (Sunday)
U-T reporter goes back to Maine island to revisit the past.
Weary of politics and the pandemic, Union-tribune reporter heads back to the island off the coast of Maine where he grew up, hoping to write a feel-good, life-affirming novel about teenage adventure in a small town
Good God, what have I done? I have no idea if I’m capable of writing a book. But I recently blurted out on Facebook that I’m researching a novel and had come up with a working title:
“The Legends of Ledgelawn Avenue.”
I can’t name 10 people who’ve ever heard of Ledgelawn, a tiny street in a small town on a littleknown island off the coast of Maine.
Who did I think this was going to appeal to? Well-traveled sea gulls?
What hubris. What stupidity. And yet, I may be on to something.
It is the spring of 2021, and my soul needs repair.
The meanness of political life in America has ripped me up and beaten me down. So has the devastation of the pandemic. And the horrors of social injustice. As I write this, the George Floyd trial is playing out in a Minneapolis courtroom.
I need to create something sweet and life-affirming, something that could be shared with others.
Maybe a book is the answer. Maybe it would be therapeutic, or even cathartic. Perhaps even publishable.
I have in mind a quirky novel about a group of teenagers whiling away the hours in Bar Harbor in the summer of 1967, back when Maine’s Mount Desert Island was overrun with tourists drawn to Acadia National Park, one of nature’s grand jewels.
That’s about the time I was coming of age in and around MDI, as the locals call it. It also was the summer of the “Impossible Dream,” when the Red Sox shook off decades of crappiness and won the pennant, causing New Englanders to hyperventilate.
There won’t be any car chases or shootings. But fishing boats will collide in the fog on Frenchman Bay, a firetruck will end up at the bottom of the harbor, and the gang will get caught in a hellacious lightning storm atop Cadillac Mountain.
By gang I mean Woot, Sam, Emma and Early, the main characters. At least, that’s what I’m calling them at the moment. I’ve gotten blowback on Facebook for my choices, notably from a friend who says, “Those names aren’t common in Maine!”
He might have been yanking my crank. We went to high school with guys named Sam.
The characters are meant to be familiar, not fantastical. I can’t relate to a tuxedo-wearing werewolf. But I melt at the sight of teenagers flirting at a traffic light, the way they do in “American Graffiti.”
Decades ago, I was one of those teenagers, rolling past the Criterion Theatre on Cottage Street in a friend’s Camaro with a warm Budweiser squeezed between my knees.
I had a bad overbite and hair that resembled a hornet’s nest, so not a lot of girls flirted back. The possibility of a connection was enough.
“American Graffiti” was directed and co-written by George Lucas, who was telling the story of his youth in Modesto. It is a version of a tale that’s been told many times, in many ways.
I hope to add to the canon by setting the story in Bar Harbor, a village so pretty and enchanting it was once known as Eden.
It’s flanked by a royal blue harbor, lush green mini-islands, and the salmon-colored expanse of Cadillac, the first place in the U.S. to see the sun rise each day between early October and early March.
Cadillac lords over MDI, whose 108 square miles are home to one of the nation’s most popular national parks. Big waves explode into a coastal cavern known as Thunder Hole. Cyclists slow-roll over handsome carriage paths that were underwritten by John D. Rockefeller Jr., who lived on the island for years. Sunbathers lounge on Sand Beach, a hideyhide inlet where lovers gather at night. The skies are so clear you don’t have to squint to see the constellations.
In 1967, you could stand on the summit of Cadillac during the day and watch the Bluenose, a 346-foot car ferry, leave Bar Harbor and head for Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, laden with tourists.
I am the son of a son of a sailor, and sights like this move me in ways I can’t fully describe. There is nothing as grand as a ship, and for that reason the Bluenose will be central to the plot.
The ship’s bow will be the place where it is determined whether Woot, Sam and Early — the denizens of Ledgelawn Avenue — will rise to the status of legends in the backwaters of MDI.
The story is fictional. But the details will be accurate and believable thanks, in part, to a Facebook group called “Growing up in Bar Harbor.”
My MDI days occurred a half century ago, so I’ve been peppering the group with questions about things and places and people that I don’t sharply remember. I’ve been a newspaper reporter for 45 years and know that good stories are built on great details.
The group has been particularly helpful in fleshing out details about the Bluenose, which was a source of pride and wonder and employment.
Toby Michelle Alley told me in a post: “I loved the rumble of the motors, the pitch and sway of the boat on rolling waters, the smell of diesel mixed with salty ocean spray, the casino with its lights and sounds ...
“I loved the gift shop where I could buy Jersey Milk candy bars (that I couldn’t get in BH), I loved standing on the stern deck and watching the wake churn up behind us.”
Paula Frost Lamoureux said: “The (ship’s) horn blowing, coming and going, was always a comfort to me living on Myrtle Ave. My parents would take us kids down to the pier for an ice cream in our jammies and then drive to the Bluenose parking lot and watch it dock.
“Oh the simple ways of life.” A third person posted highly specific details about how it would have been possible to sneak aboard the Bluenose late at night and get up to the bridge. I’ll keep that secret for now. I want it to be a surprise.
I’ll be collecting more details soon. I’m scheduled to arrive in Bar Harbor on May 24 for a twoweek stay. My niece, Abi, and her 6-year-old son, Sam, will join me for a few days.
We’ll drive up to the top of Cadillac and look out at the world. I’ll tell them stories from those long-ago years and probably blubber. I’m a sentimental person.
Abi will get misty-eyed. Sam will get bored and say, “Uncle Gary, can we go get ice cream?”
Robbins has covered science and higher education for the Union-tribune for the past 11 years. He’s been a journalist for 45 years and lived within a few blocks of Boston’s Fenway Park while attending Northeastern University.