St. George is a town on one of the numerous peninsulas on the coast of Maine. Because St. George is only a mile or so wide in some places, Route 131 is the only road that will get you from Port Clyde to Thomaston, the closest metropolitan area.
St. George is reputed to have a population of 2,592. Most of us live in one of the several villages strung out along our only main road. Although I might start a revolution by saying so, the most significant cultural and economic centers in town are Port Clyde, Martinsville, Tenants Harbor, Wildcat, Long Cove, Smallytown, Clark Island, St. George and the Kinney Woods – which now boasts Mary’s used-book store.
Except for a handful of folks in Spruce Head, most St. Georgers live on a dead-end road. Unless you arrive by boat or air, anyone going to Port Clyde has to go by our house.
The traffic on 131 is wicked. You are taking your life in your hands every time you cross the road to pick blueberries or check on the cow friends. A dozen cars might have to zip by, bumper to bumper, each trying to push the one in front out of the way, before you can quickly look both ways and feel it’s safe to run.
Even at 2 and 3 in the morning there are speeding cars on that road, going who knows where: Summercaters, driving all night so as not to miss a minute of that $4,000-a-week cottage on the ocean, or perhaps getting a head start on Wiscasset traffic for the trip home. Trucks loaded with lobsters, heading for Boston or Florida, and later, going the other way, sternmen who will be hauling their first trap at the crack of dawn.
An hour or two later countless pickup trucks zip by, driven by carpenters, roofers, plumbers, mowers of lawns and every other trade that entails building a house from the ground up and then maintaining it.
There was a time when a boy could safely ride his bicycle on this very same road. He even knew who was in each of the cars that went by. Mr. Hupper, the plumber, drove a pickup truck and would give you a ride if you stuck out your thumb. Mr. Rawley, known as “The Creep,” because his wife wouldn’t let him use high gear, had the 1938 Buick. Frank Kerswell drove the ’32 Chevrolet coupe convertible. His wife, Phoebe, always had her door open. If it looked like they were going to hit something, she wanted to be ready to jump out.
When Frank quit driving, my brother was able to buy that Chevrolet, probably because our grandfather was a second cousin to Frank’s mother and had helped him build his house 65 years before. What goes around comes around.
Frank had two wooden legs, and the clutch and brake pedals had metal slots welded on them so his shoes wouldn’t slide off.
Back then one or two of the neighbors still worked with horses. Percy would fetch his firewood with Maude, the mule, and Percy’s wife, Lena, would sit on the back of the wagon so she could jump off if Maude ran away.
Shortly after the war, cars once again became available. I was a member of the first generation to drive a car to school. That changed the way things had always been done, much as smartphones have given us a generation of glassy-eyed children who wander about looking at their hands.
When I was 14, I bought a 1932 Ford coupe convertible for $43 from Stanley Stone, a distant cousin in Port Clyde, drove it home and looked forward to the day when I could buy number plates and get a driver’s license. While waiting to be legal, I roared up and down the Old Road and round and round in the field.
Years later I taught driver’s education in Rockland, and there was one student I simply could not pass. Because of the way he rode his bicycle, I knew he’d soon total his car. (As soon as he got his license, he did.)
So yes, just by seeing me drive my ’32 Ford around the field, my insurance man wouldn’t write a policy on my car. So the next time you have to wait for a dozen speeding cars to roar by before you can cross the road in front of your house, remember that when it comes to reckless driving in Maine, I was a pioneer.
Long before my time, a man from Boston leaned out of his car window and asked my next-door neighbor, Gramp Wiley, if Route 131 was a cul de sac. Gramp said no, but if he drove far enough he’d come to a dead end.
The humble Farmer can be heard Friday nights at 7 on WHPW (97.3 FM) and visited at his website:
www.thehumblefarmer.com/ MainePrivateRadio.html
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