Thursday, October 22, 2009

Contrast Essay

It seems that, ever since my father first touched his foot on Maine ground, he hated it. He did not fall in love with the undulating ocean that changed colors with the season. He gained no appreciation for the rocky coast where random refuse washed up that some people decorate their houses with. Even less did he care for the lobstermen culture, finding them a sloppy bunch, rude in their language and even worse in their treatment of women. The moment he smelled the sickening salty air, the scent of mudflats trembling at his nose, he wished for Montana again. "It's a different world," he said. He missed the mountains mixed with vast plains, the arid atmosphere and the sweet tang of a cowboy's voice.

It's the mountains he misses the most. Mountains mixed with winding streams where fishing is good. Maine has its snow-capped elevations, but they are child's play. Perhaps only practice for what was created back home, as he says, in Montana. Pure mountain country. The only thing rivaling that picturesque perfection is the rocky, unsettled coast found here. My father has never appeared to have any use for it, not even as a newcomer, never filling albums with endless pictures of the shore. But there are albums, precious memory books, of the jagged peaks stretching to the sky and of the streams that trickle down from them so clear you can see the rocks shining through.

I suppose the salty body of water this state is anchored to is the cause of the moisture that so often saturates the air. Yet another reason my father is indifferent, almost entirely apathetic, to it. During the winter, he diligently stokes the fire, hoping in vain to wring the atmosphere of its dampness. Montana is so dry, too dry sometimes, but better than too wet, especially when one's joints ache with the rise of humidity. Montana's summer months can be brutal to Maine standards, but its the dryness that is its saving grace. One can stand the heat, my father says, if they don't feel like they're drowning at the same time. Montana's heat is the baking kind, the kind arthritic bones long for, to cook the pain right out.

His greatest disdain, however, greater than all others, is the culture. It's too closed off, he says, and I know within that statement there hides double meaning. He misses the wide open spaces of Montana, spaces to which one can escape and roam freely if the ever-present trees become too much. But, the obvious meaning glares through. He always means the culture of Maine, primarily downeast Maine, of the iconic lobstermen. At first, he says, he thought it'd be quant. Charming. Postcard perfect. Instead, he's found it to be too brusque and unabashed. For some reason, the mud under the nails of a man who works the sea means little compared to the arid dirt under the nails of a man whose jeans are snug on legs that bow at the knees. And the language, he says, is unbearable. Apparently, in his mind, when a cowboy swears it still has an elegance to it. If such a swear is aimed at a horse, it is then a thing of beauty.

There is so much that is so different between these two states. I can still sense, despite all the years that have gone by, that we are still tourists. We are still Westerners discovering the Eastern coast for the first time. We do not pronounce our r's with the laziness that some Mainers do, in fact, my father would scold us if we ever did. We are still quite alien in a state we have called home for all except six months of my life. We still, my sister, mother and I, live under the hope that one day my father will return to the land of his heart. Where the air is clean, the mountains are high, and the cowboys still tip their hats.

1 comment:

  1. Sure, this does it. All your effects under control, everything goldilocksy, nice dry tone.

    ReplyDelete

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