The County of the Pointed Firs

Years ago, I was at the beach with my friend, Kelley and all of our young children. We had a beautiful day for a picnic, and as the little ones scampered about our feet, picking up shells and sea glass (and too many small crabs for our comfort), Kelley and I had five minutes peace to talk about the books that had meant the most to us in our lives. Kelley's suggestion for a book she had loved was "The County of the Pointed Firs" by Sarah Orne Jewett. At the time, I was hooked on mystery novels, simply because solving a unexpected occurrence seemed to engage my brain more than playing play-doh with my toddlers. I picked up a copy of this novel, but it sat on my nightstand for years.


By the time my preschool addled mind was ready to engage in real literature once again, I remembered "The County of the Pointed Firs" and happily inhaled the story. The beautiful, moving, troubling and uplifting series of stories, linking the lives of Maine women in a remote, far northern town, "The County of Pointed Firs" described a Maine with which I'm unfamiliar. Living on the coast in a travel destination resort community, the Maine I experience daily, and the rural Maine of the late 19th century felt as they were two different places. The deprivation, the fear, the commitment to the land and the sacrifices of the women in this novel were as removed from my own life on the Maine coast, as life on another planet might be. I enjoyed this novel not only because of the exceptional narrative, but also because of the exquisite portrait painted of a specific place and time in Maine's history.

As I've reread this book many times, I was always struck by its description of a Maine of long ago. However, I have come to see that the Maine described in "The County of the Pointed Firs" is alive and well...and far to the north. My daughter was recently at a soccer camp in Presque Isle, Maine. This is nearly as far north as it's possible to go and still remain in the continental United States. My husband brought our daughter north, and I was scheduled to retrieve her when camp was over. Having never been north of Bangor, I had thought I'd been "north" as defined by my own landmarks. As comfortable as I am with driving to Boston or New York, the thought of traveling, for hundreds of miles, with nothing but woods around me was a little unsettling. I passed Bangor believing that I was leaving the gateway of civilization, as I knew it, behind me. I wasn't far from wrong.


For 2 hours of my five hour drive, I saw nothing but forest. The highway rolled on, and the cars became fewer. The miles ticked away and the small towns gave way to vast stretches of nothing but woods and streams. The villages themselves stopped having names. As I continued on my trek north, the roadside signs read notices like "Now Entering T-1 9-6". The hamlets were reduced to bearing numeric monikers. Although I've lived in Maine, off and on, for much of my life, I had never been this far away from the restaurants, shops, culture and people with which I was familiar. It felt as if I'd left this century altogether, and was entering a land forgotten by time completely. The magnitude of the sprawling ranges of pine trees and mountains was extraordinary. When I caught my first glimpse of Mt. Katahdin, I was overwhelmed. I felt exceptionally blessed to be at that very place, at that very moment.


As my drive continued, and I emerged on the far side side above the Maine North Woods, small towns began to take shape. They themselves look as they were living piece of history. Modern conveniences and amenities were nowhere to be seen: just hardworking farm families, eking out a living in an area that felt like no-man's land. Aroostook County doesn't feel like the more populated areas of Maine, but nor does it feel like Canada yet. The region contains its own stories, its own history and its own dynamic that is far different from the rest of New England. It struck me as being the very land, right out of Sarah Orne Jewett's "The County of the Pointed Firs", didn't feel as if it had changed bit since Jewett wrote the novel in the late 1800's.

My trip north was an inspiration. It showed me that hardy people can create thriving communities in harsh environments, but these people must depend upon each other in every way possible. It taught me that ways of life are still being preserved in our ever-shrinking global society. It humbled me to realize that there are people who would rather have peace and quiet and live off the land, than cable television and elegant restaurants. While I am honest enough with myself to know that this lifestyle is not within my comfort zone, the trip gave me a feeling of pride to live in such a state that embraces diversity of lifestyle choices. The thought of families keeping their land for generations, despite harsh winters and unpredictable summers, filled me with awe. It also made me understand that, despite living in the same state, the Maine in which I live, and "The County" are more complexly dissimilar than I had ever dreamed possible.

As I drove the long road home, I couldn't help but be reminded of Sarah Orne Jewett's words, "“In the life of each of us, there is a place as remote and islanded as the county, and that we choose to give to endless regret or secret happiness.'” I am filled with hope that I can choose happiness over regret. After seeing the tight knit communities to the north, I realize how much of who we are depends upon our choice of vision, and not of our own circumstances.