Nine Days in Maine

by Mattie John Bamman

Arriving on a bus from Bangor, it had been three years since I’d been in Maine during the summer. K, my girlfriend, had come with me to meet my family. My parents had taken off work for the entire duration of my visit, and we were in full vacation mode.

Dad showed me the porch he’s building, while our dog, Jib, who dotes on him and is probably the most pathetic creature currently on the planet, followed us around.



K broke out margaritas before dinner. Then Mom served a dish I’d spoken of many times to K, haddock wrapped in phyllo dough with a mushroom rue. Every year, home-cooked meals taste better.

My sister has recently grown older than me. It happened with the new job she took. They had offered her a “nice package.” I’ve never been offered such a thing, and she had to explain it to me. It includes life insurance. At 22, she’s kicking my ass at something.


Before I was born, my parents jumped in a van they named “Blue” and drove from upstate New York to Maine. When they ran out of bread, they stopped at a bakery run by a married couple who were part of the back-to-the-land movement. My parents lived with them in a dome before Dad got out his saw and built the house that I grew up in, in Milbridge. In 2003, they decided the upkeep on the old house was too much, so theysold it. It was a lifestyle they were leaving that had gone on for over half their lives.


My Dad has a wooden sailboat named Galatea. Jib, as befits his name, likes to sit in the bow. We motored out of the long river harbord, followed by a resident seahawk.

Under sail, the distant mountains of Acadia National Park rolled, under clear blue skies. Mom tried to position her center of balance, keeping it even with the keel. Close by, cormorants stood on the rock ledges, their wings open, drying. Down East, we call them shitpokes.

One day, we saw a young eagle try to eat a shitpoke:

Dad: Oh my God, the eagle’s chasing the duck! It’s the eagle versus the duck. They’re out there on the flats. I lost them in the tree [holding up the binoculars].

Mom: It’s starting to fly and the eagle’s right on its ass. The eagle landed right next to him! Go in the water, bid.

Me: I’ve seen a seagull eat a pigeon.

Mom: It looks like an immature eagle. I can see some white, on its tail. I think he’s safe. The eagle’s lost him. He’s hovering above where the duck was. I think it was a cormorant. Diving ducks. It’s interesting that our national bird is the eagle. It’s such a disgusting bird.

Me: I’ve never seen anything like that battle between the eagle and the duck.