Maine Metaphor

      The Green and Blue House

      Copyright © 1989, 2014 Susan C. Dorman. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions. Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      ISBN 13: 978-1-4982-0103-2

      EISBN 13: 978-1-4982-0104-9

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. 10/01/2014

      For Ronald Allen, who wanted to come from away.

      “I took a walk on Spaulding’s Farm the other afternoon. I saw the setting sun lighting up the opposite side of a stately pine wood. Its golden rays straggled into the aisles of the wood as into some noble hall. I was impressed as if some ancient and altogether admirable and shining family had settled there in that part of the land . . . I saw their park, their pleasure-ground, beyond through the wood, in Spaulding’s cranberry-meadow. The pines furnished them with gables as they grew. Their house was not obvious to vision; trees grew through it . . . The farmer’s cart-path, which leads directly through their hall, does not in the least put them out . . . They never heard of Spaulding, and do not know that he is their neighbor,—notwithstanding I heard him whistle as he drove his team through the house.”

      —Henry David Thoreau, “Walking”

      Foreword

      Twenty-five years ago, as a new Assistant Professor of Creative Writing in Farmington, Maine, I encountered a woman who wanted nothing more than to write about Maine. Susan Dorman seemed to emerge from the Maine woods and streams, as New England as the land, but she had actually recently moved with her husband and two adolescent sons to economically-depressed western Maine from economically-depressed blue-collar Pennsylvania.

      Susan’s husband found work as an electrician in a paper mill and Susan, completing a self-designed major of “Maine Studies,” began a directed study with me. As she recalls it, she wanted to write about Maine’s “mythological view in literature.” I suggested she begin a study of journals instead, and keep a journal of her own. From that, this book grew, taking on its own life, a life of yearning, digressions spurred by curiosity, unexpected epiphanies. Never sentimental, Dorman’s prose reflects the mystery Maine is to her, and something essential to its character. She writes that Maine “paralyzed” her at first, freezing her hard as a rock, but in this collection of brief, surprising essays, Dorman uncovers not only a deep understanding of Maine, but a hard-won love. The book is a record of her thawing, her gradual falling in love with Maine as she comes to understand herself through its landscape.

      This book is not a memoir about Susan and her family; it is a book about the landscape of Maine, as portrayed in the words of one with an uncommonly acute ability to observe, to see, and one with a language that is never commonplace, yet never showy; that is always in service to what it sees. She writes in one chapter that she wants to “honor” Earl, the illiterate man who works at the local dump, and it occurs to me that in every chapter, every page and every word, she wants to honor not only the people but the landscape, the rocks and rivers and especially the trees, of her adopted state of Maine. In this she succeeds, as well as any writer I’ve ever encountered.

      She calls her book Maine Metaphor: The Green and Blue House, and the title is apt, for she has the artist’s way of seeing metaphorically. Dorman writes, “Writers are always turning over rocks, peering into holes, tickling the backs of someone’s knees looking for metaphors,” yet she doesn’t search hard for metaphors: she seems to have the kind of vision that sees metaphor everywhere in the natural world. As she struggles to see what Maine is, and to hear its speech, she can’t help but see it as a metaphor for the interior life, for the deepest part of her self.

      Susan Dorman, a contemporary Henry David Thoreau? Perhaps—but a Thoreau who tramps the earth of New England with an awareness of her husband, working deep in the bowels of a paper mill, allowing her the luxury to take in the towns, the hills and sky of her adopted state of Maine; a Thoreau who can’t help but worry how the bills will be paid, and how her sons are adapting to this new land. A Thoreau who is acutely aware of the irony of the fact that, while her husband works at turning Maine’s trees into money, high on a catwalk above massive digesters giving off hydrogen sulfide and other gases in the hot, oppressive beast of the paper mill, she hikes and daydreams under those trees, learning all she can about them to bring them to us unharmed, to do them honor.

      Dorman writes that her goal is to write something “deep, fine and detailed, on Maine, drawn from the records—geological, botanical, historic, prehistoric.” This list does describe her book, but it leaves out one thing: the personal voice and life of the narrator, who comes achingly alive for us in response to this state, this land she loves and struggles with. Her goal ultimately is “spiritual quarry,” which she consumes while “still afoot.”

      She also writes, “A sense of wonder needs constant renewal.” In her searching observations of the natural world, Dorman finds wonder in places both distant (within a small plane, circling above its shadow below), and near (the pale green ovary inside the sepals of the day lily), and she brings that wonder to her reader. She watches and remembers the world she sees. A cricket in the night tells her, “You might write about me;” she listens, and does.

      Patricia O’Donnell,BFA Director of Creative Writing,University of Maine Farmington

      The Green and Blue House

      Having heard that it was the green and blue cathedral, I wanted to see this varying land of mountains, lakes, and skies. Having seen the rocky forested superstructure, I wanted to find meaning in its buttressing. We had been told that here bread might become body, water turned into wine; that the cathedral’s rituals were mighty and hallowed but, above all, purposeful; and I wanted to know if it were so. But first would come the experience.

      Allen and I stop outside town at the diner, for coffee to drink on our way up north to Aziscohos, then mount rapidly through Grafton Notch, fourteen miles of designated scenic Maine highway. We find views of dark Old Spec and white Bald Pate mountains, of foaming, tumultuous Screw Augur Falls; rising at last to the vision at Upton overlooking Umbagog—vast, blue, watery. Far below us spreads the deep green lap of beauty. Yet one might see such sights driving to work on an ordinary weekday in these Western Mountains. Had we remained in deeply depressed blue-collar Pennsylvania we’d have missed them. Had we stayed in the trailer there, cut off from electric and gas (wondering how we would care for our two adolescent sons in the coming winter).

      Now we dip down into New Hampshire, follow our route north along Magalloway River, until reentering Maine. I notice a double-topped, firred mountain, rightly guess that it is Aziscohos Mountain, which, according to the AMC Maine mountain guide, has a trail winding to a fire tower. From there a view of fifteen lakes rewards the climber, says the guide. A shade less than two-and-a-half miles upslope, it’s a two-hour climb (or so the book says). Briefly we consider it, but Allen, a contractor’s electrician, is exhausted from climbing around on the jungle-gyms of the Papermakers in 110 degree industrial heat. All week. And I—a student currently studying old fashioned apple varieties among other Maine subjects—am just plain lazy in the heat.

      We opt to stop at the old concrete dam. Steel-blue conduit a few feet in diameter runs out from it, following the rock-choked stream southward.