Cross Country: Expectations

The earliest years of my life were spent mostly in the west. Not only in the west but in areas much more densely populated than the great Aroostook County. Before moving to northern Maine, I lived in Pocatello, Idaho, a dry, treeless piece of land at the bottom corner of the state. Though many have probably never heard of Pocatello it was the fourth largest city in Idaho, with a metro population of 83,303 as of the 2000 census. The elementary school I attended covered kindergarten through sixth grade, with roughly 500 students at the time. I spent my summers at the swimming pool or wandering the city with friends, usually on roller blades. The air was always hot and dry, and there was so much to do in the city. For these reasons as well as others, I was less than delighted when my parents informed me that we would be moving across the nation to Maine.



My father was ecstatic, having lived thousands of miles away from his family for nearly twenty years. I, on the other hand was deeply disappointed and horrified with the descriptive explanations of what I might expect from my new home. I felt as though I may be going back in time, and in a way I was. Dad explained that some products took a little longer to catch on in the north, and so I may not see some of my favorite foods and fashions right way. This was a bearable notion. Less bearable was the fact that we would be living on a dirt road. My mind instantly provided images of old wagon trains crossing the west, and I grimaced with dread. We were also to have a well providing our water supply. Having only known city water my whole life, once more I was bewildered.
“Fine!” I shouted in my brattiest tone, “but I’m not carrying buckets of water to the house. That’s just ridiculous!”
As cool as it sounded that we would live beside a lake, I was disgusted by the notion of swimming in its waters. I imagined what slimy fish and crabby clawed creatures might dwell at the darkest depths, waiting to spring upon unsuspecting little girls swimming with nature for the first time. As gross as I anticipated the murky lake waters to be, it was incomparable to the thought of the outhouses our neighbors owned. My ten years of life had only given me experience with outhouses being used for camping purposes.
The final thorn in my side came after moving in. It turned out that our home was one of the very few used for year round dwelling, and thus my brother and I were the only children living on our side of the lake beyond summer. As far as we were concerned our home wasn’t even near civilization, as it was called T17R5. The nearest town to my house was Sinclair, Maine, a residence that has a reported 328 inhabitants as of 2009. For school I was to attend Patrick Theriault School, which at its height had 25 students from pre-school to 6th grade. I did not know there were still classrooms that encompassed multiple grade levels until then. I was the only girl in my grade of five students, and one of three girls in the entire fourth to sixth grade class.
Perhaps I have come across as being ignorant in the beginnings of my experience, but in my defense I was only ten years old and had never experienced rural life. Until 1997 I had only taken residence in San Antonio, Texas, urban portions of California, and then Pocatello. Despite my initial reactions to my new way of life I was pleasantly surprised by my experience in the great north. As time goes by I only grow fonder of the beauty offered by this great land. There are locations and traditions that are unique to this area. It gives the county a real character and keeps people coming back home following twenty year hiatus.