Hunting Moose in Maine

After spending 28 days researching and writing my new book Thanks But No Thanks: The Voter’s Guide to Sarah Palin, and then spending an intense week working with the publisher to get it ready for publication, getting the word out to all my peeps and opening the mail (snail and e) that had remained unopened for a month, I decided I needed a break. I went to Maine to see the autumn leaves beginning their color chart.

But before I tell you about my time in Maine, let me point you to reviews of my book by two of my favorite, most-respected bloggers. Stephen Weinstein writes a weekly wrap-up that is simply unmissible. He finds the nuggets of news that the mainstream overlooks and he supplies his unique, intelligent take on things to his lucky readers. He is widely read and reprinted; he honored me with a wonderful review which you can see here. I recommend you subscribe without a moment's delay to Stephen Views The News.

I met Susan Corso when she and her partner turned up for a series of Ballroom and Latin American dance lessons in my crowded little apartment. Susan’s exceptional dynamism is based in her spirituality and radiates from her writing. Considering that I am the least spiritual person on earth, it is amazing how wonderfully Susan and I have connected –online these last years. She is the astute typo policewoman who saves me from blogging faux pas. My explorations of her own amazing writing is like a trip to a magic place. You can visit her main website here  or can you check out her blush-making review of my book here.

Back to my mini-vacation. I hadn’t “done” fall in Maine before – I always go to Vermont for New England leaf peeking – but my friend’s daughter was running a half-marathon and he wanted to photograph her as she crossed the finish line. As it was her first such race, she had no clear idea how long it would take, so we stood on the sidelines of the finish area with all the other folks who were waiting to cheer their people.

We came quite early, so while we were waiting, we got to chatting with the guy standing behind us. His wife and daughter were racing. Where were we from? Massachusetts. Where was he from? Alaska.

What’s the likelihood that on my brief break from my book, playing tourist in Portland, Maine, I’d be hanging with one of Palin’s homies? So what do you think of Sarah Palin, I asked.

“She’s a great lady,” he answered sweetly, “if you ask me, that is. If you ask anyone else in my family, they’re voting for Obama.”

Why do you like her? “Because she was against the powers-that-be in her own party. But my wife and daughter don’t like her at all.”

I handed him one of the new postcards with the cover of my book on the front and told him about it. “My wife and daughter will love it. I’ll buy it for them. And then I’ll read it too,” he promised, “and maybe you’ll change my mind about her.” My friend’s daughter crossed the finish line and we ran off to celebrate, waving goodbye to my new Alaskan acquaintance.

I had two strange sign experiences. The first was on the drive into Maine. An airplane was hovering high up in the air as we drove along the highway, with something unidentifiable dangling from it, perhaps a small banner. Finally we got close enough that if I leaned out the window I could just about read: “D'Ambrosio Eye Care." It included an 800 phone number. Who is the genius that thought us this marketing ploy? As I said to my friend, “Anyone who can read the damn thing doesn’t need their services.”

The next day we took a leisurely ride back to the Boston area. But everywhere we went in pretty Maine, there were disconcerting signs that said “Evacuation Route” or “Evacuation Center.” It was rather bizarre, until I learned that the Seabrook nuclear power plant in nearby New Hampshire had some years ago engendered such fears of a Chernobyl-type accident, that whole parts of Maine, New Hampshire and Massachusetts developed and posted evacuation plans. Here’s homeland security’s latest plan for that plant.

We were driving down Route 1. Near the Wells town line we passed a homestead piled with dilapidated, crooked outbuildings. At the main house, a lively antiques sale was going on and we stopped. The sign said Johnson’s American Museum. We handed over $5 to Mr. Bill Johnson who has for 30 years assembled on his pasture every interesting, creaky old thing in the area. He’s got an 18th century schoolhouse, a weathered early 20th century “Comfort House” (overnight guests $1 per night), a few cupolas sinking into the grass and a crumbling antique railroad car resting on a rusting fire hydrant.

I thought in this place – Johnson calls it a “poor man’s museum,” his neighbors call it an abominable eyesore – I could forget about Sarah Palin for just a few moments. Until I turned the corner and there it was. A big moose. A big wooden moose calling to me, worried about its future if the moose hunters win the election. I wanted to reassure it so I rubbed its antlers, kissed its cheeks and headed home.