The weekends are usually busy with preparing for the following week. As we near the tail end of summer I thought it might be a good idea to take Mom and Dad for a drive. One last hoorah. I thought we could drive up to Dover-Foxcroft and Sebec where Mom and Dad lived for the first several years they were up here. It's been a while since they've been back and it's been a while since we've gone anywhere other than Rockland or Bangor. So it was agreed upon and off we went.
You drive to the end of our road, turn right and continue on the same road. Roughly an hour and a half later you've reached your destination. While there are dozens of different ways to maneuver through Bangor, you pretty much stay on 15 and it leads you right to Dover. I sometimes find it difficult to conceive of getting lost in Maine.
As you leave Bangor and its outer suburbs with towns like Glenburn, the road opens up. It's swampy with little rivers and streams running here and there to the left and right. It's also littered with lush fields, some growing corn, some grass for hay, some plain old Golden Rod, the most hated weed by those that suffer from allergies. There's a peacefulness this drive offers, partly because it's so familiar, partly because it's so beautifully country. Unlike other places I've lived, not much changes. Oh sure, the sleepy town of Corinth (where Dad once tried to get a teaching job) is building a ginormous school building to house several school districts, big news in that area. And Dover-Foxcroft may have rehabilitated part of the old mill that sits along the Penobscot river, converting them into apartments. But that is pretty much it. Overall, not much is different. The statue factory, a house that has for the better part of 30 years, been selling lawn statues of every design is still there. Houses we used to admire still stand, some in need of repair, some fixed up, since we've last driven by. Dilapidated dwellings have continued on their path of deterioration, still not torn down because people most likely still inhabit them. Along the drive there comes the point in the road where you can see the Charleston correctional tower, way off in the distance sitting on top of a hill. Several miles later and you climb up that hill to it's peak, where the correctional facility is (Dad applied there also as a teacher to the inmates). As you top the peak of this ridge directly in front of you is the most gorgeous road view of what I like to call the gateway to the Maine woods. The Appalachians stretch the entire horizon. Borestone Mountain, with it's distinctive double peaks lies almost smack dab in the middle. On a very clear day you can get the faintest hint of Mount Katahdin off to the right, some 60 miles away, Maine's tallest mountain. You head down the ridge eventually ending up in Dover-Foxcroft, the somewhat sleepy little town we used to visit as kids and where Mom and Dad first lived when they retired up here (although, technically their house was in the next town Sebec, but Sebec has nothing in it, making Dover the lifeblood for everything you need). It is a quaint little town. It has everything you need, gas station, grocery store, hardware, post office and even a small town restaurant. Dad originally picked it because it's the county seat so it's High School is well known, it has a hospital that services so much of northern central Maine, it's just a little bit of everything.
We drive slowly through town. Dad had to remind me how to get to their old house (something I laughed at after the fact). We drove by. It looked the same. Secluded and well away of everything, this was the house Dad loved and still thinks about, even though it's been well established they are better off in Bucksport.
Slowly we meandered our way back towards Bangor and home, taking an alternate route that both Mom and Dad reminded me they used to take home from church in Bangor. The sun was shining. There were hardly any cars. It was just us. It was a perfect day and a great way to end the summer. What more could you ask for?
You drive to the end of our road, turn right and continue on the same road. Roughly an hour and a half later you've reached your destination. While there are dozens of different ways to maneuver through Bangor, you pretty much stay on 15 and it leads you right to Dover. I sometimes find it difficult to conceive of getting lost in Maine.
As you leave Bangor and its outer suburbs with towns like Glenburn, the road opens up. It's swampy with little rivers and streams running here and there to the left and right. It's also littered with lush fields, some growing corn, some grass for hay, some plain old Golden Rod, the most hated weed by those that suffer from allergies. There's a peacefulness this drive offers, partly because it's so familiar, partly because it's so beautifully country. Unlike other places I've lived, not much changes. Oh sure, the sleepy town of Corinth (where Dad once tried to get a teaching job) is building a ginormous school building to house several school districts, big news in that area. And Dover-Foxcroft may have rehabilitated part of the old mill that sits along the Penobscot river, converting them into apartments. But that is pretty much it. Overall, not much is different. The statue factory, a house that has for the better part of 30 years, been selling lawn statues of every design is still there. Houses we used to admire still stand, some in need of repair, some fixed up, since we've last driven by. Dilapidated dwellings have continued on their path of deterioration, still not torn down because people most likely still inhabit them. Along the drive there comes the point in the road where you can see the Charleston correctional tower, way off in the distance sitting on top of a hill. Several miles later and you climb up that hill to it's peak, where the correctional facility is (Dad applied there also as a teacher to the inmates). As you top the peak of this ridge directly in front of you is the most gorgeous road view of what I like to call the gateway to the Maine woods. The Appalachians stretch the entire horizon. Borestone Mountain, with it's distinctive double peaks lies almost smack dab in the middle. On a very clear day you can get the faintest hint of Mount Katahdin off to the right, some 60 miles away, Maine's tallest mountain. You head down the ridge eventually ending up in Dover-Foxcroft, the somewhat sleepy little town we used to visit as kids and where Mom and Dad first lived when they retired up here (although, technically their house was in the next town Sebec, but Sebec has nothing in it, making Dover the lifeblood for everything you need). It is a quaint little town. It has everything you need, gas station, grocery store, hardware, post office and even a small town restaurant. Dad originally picked it because it's the county seat so it's High School is well known, it has a hospital that services so much of northern central Maine, it's just a little bit of everything.
We drive slowly through town. Dad had to remind me how to get to their old house (something I laughed at after the fact). We drove by. It looked the same. Secluded and well away of everything, this was the house Dad loved and still thinks about, even though it's been well established they are better off in Bucksport.
Slowly we meandered our way back towards Bangor and home, taking an alternate route that both Mom and Dad reminded me they used to take home from church in Bangor. The sun was shining. There were hardly any cars. It was just us. It was a perfect day and a great way to end the summer. What more could you ask for?
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