worth my Salt

It's official! Come September, I'm Maine-bound, to take a 15 week crash course in Radio Documentary.

With fall fast-approaching (and Portland on my mind), I've found myself thinking about Maine as it "is" and not as I'm used to remembering it. Telling the difference between the two is practically impossible. I have four years worth of memories, distilled through a 3 year separation. Has there ever been a state more clouded by nostalgia? (Except, maybe, this one I've chosen to call home for now.) It's a minefield of sentimentality, and I'm trying to work up my bravery to approach those myths and de-fuse them.

I have to say: it's not going well. With the exciting news comes the inevitable question of my interests: "What kinds of stories will you tell?!" I begin to blather almost immediately—discussing economic strain and redevelopment woes. Maybe I address the question of immigration, or bi-lingualism in schools…but it's passionless, flat, when I talk about it. I know it's too soon to worry, but I'm already having a hard time really asking the questions I want to answer.

And so I'm trying to think small, not about the broad sweep of social stratification, but the roadside stand where I bought my bike my senior year at Bates, the pancakes I ate on picnic tables at Nezinscot. My cheeks flush with the thought of contra dancing again. I'll take a trip up the coast, and instead of gazing longingly at the sea, I'll drop eye contact with the horizon, and not even bother with the breaking waves. I'll look at the hard smooth rocks, the sea glass around my feet. I'll think about all those bottles, most of them purposefully broken.