July 14, 2009--Attila the Hun

“Above all,” we were told shortly before arriving at our cottage, “don’t call me or the town highway officials about the road. We like it just the way it is. We just let nature take its course here.”

This admonition seemed strange. Why wouldn’t folks want the road leading up to their houses to be in good repair? We had never heard of anyone actually preferring things to be in disrepair. But for two months right on the coast of Maine we could put up with pretty much anything. We had heard that there was a deep strain of eccentricity among Mainers and thought perhaps this was just an example of local color. Isn’t that part of what’s involved in “getting away from it all”?

But then as we turned off onto Loop Road, a hilly, twisting version of a gravel road that threaded its way among a scattering of shorefront homes, after a record wet spring and early summer, we saw what nature taking its course could do to a surface of unmaintained dirt and aggregate.

The twin tracks that had been cut into the surface by years of use and benign neglect were also further pitted at every turning point. And though it hadn’t rained for a few days, all of these holes were filled axle-deep with standing water. Our rented Hyundai, decidedly not an off-road vehicle, slid down the sides of these mini-ponds and jolted side to side as we inched forward, glad to be tightly belted in so as to keep us from slamming as we bounced along into the doors and windshield. Fortunately our house was only a few hundred yards down this battered road but it caused us to wonder as we approached it if it too might have been left to the forces of nature and thus we would finding standing water not just on the grounds but also in the living and bedrooms.

We skidded into our driveway and were glad to notice it was smooth, level, and dry. All good signs. And the cottage, full of authentic charm, was perfect. Sighing with relief, we hugged each other to celebrate our good fortune—we had rented this place sight unseen after making only a “virtual tour” on a real estate broker’s website; and after experiencing the Loop, not a part of that tour, felt fortunate that the place was in such good shape. We would only need to go out to town or to explore the area once or twice a day and would somehow figure out how to negotiate the road. Maybe, I thought, I’ll be able to skirt some of the deeper ruts and holes by driving on the road’s margins or dodging some of them by weaving my way around those that might cause the car to bottom out and tear up the muffler or transmission. I could always call Avis for a tow if all else failed. Or turn in the Hyundai for a Subaru. Or, not very Maine, a Hummer.

As we were unloading the car a neighbor who was walking on the Loop with his golden retriever, stopped to nod hello, smiling I think more at our car than at all the luggage and cases of wine we had brought with us. Was he thinking that we weren’t being sufficiently, New Englandly minimalist or was he more likely amused at the thought of us trying to get by with a vehicle more suitable for short hops in cities or suburbs than along the rugged shore on the Pine Tree State, whose motto is Dirigo, I direct?

Later in the day, after settling in, though we planned to do lots of cooking in the spacious and well-equipped kitchen, without food yet in the house, we both needed and wanted to go to one of the local fishermen’s co-ops for a couple of lobsters and a few ears of corn that we knew we could eat at dockside in the setting sun. This of course meant we would have to make our way back up the road to get to the highway that would take us to Muscongus Harbor. It would be, I felt, an opportunity to try my drive-on-the-margins-weave among-and-between-the-potholes strategy. Might as well get right to it. So off we ventured.

It worked pretty well except when I got close to top of the steepest incline, where I not only needed to keep from sliding back down but simultaneously had to turn sharply to the right, just as I was about to successfully coordinate these moves we were jolted almost out of our seats when the car slammed into a boulder that was protruding from the road, right by the margin I was headed for to avoid a series of deep ruts.

The exhaust system seemed still to be intact and the gears were still shifting so I hadn’t caved in the transmission and I made careful note that next time we went out I would take great pains to find an alternate course up and over that hill. In fact, when returning from dinner I would have an opportunity to do so. No wine for me, I said, I need full concentration when we head home.

The food, the setting, the sunset were just as we had hoped and imagined; but all the while I was cracking lobster claws and struggling to extract the last morsels of sweet meat, a part of me was distracted, thinking about the Loop and that boulder.

I said to Rona, “I don’t want to rush you, but it’s starting to get dark and I’d really prefer not to have to . . .”

Without my having to finish the sentence Rona was up off the picnic table bench and heading toward the car. We drove in silence with the windows half down though it was chilly. The car filled with the scent of pine and briny air. It would be the end of a perfect day if only I would be able to get us home without . . .

I tuned slowly into the Loop and eased the car forward, avoiding all of the worst of the ruts and water-filled holes as I approached the top of the hill, which I then needed to get us to descend. I remembered the boulder was on the right when we left but also remembered that there looked like a clear margin next to it that I might be able to use in order to avoid the stone itself. It wasn’t protruding, I recalled, more than three or four inches and I could get the car to clear it if I managed not to have us bouncing as I steered a little off to the side of the road. I slowed to less than walking speed and got us in just the right alignment to avoid another frame-wrenching encounter.

With the boulder traversed, the rest was simple—just swing right a bit and allow the slope of the natural hill to guide us to the bottom. It wasn’t that steep, now that I was heading down it a second time, and though the gravel was loose I had control. Here I was already allowing myself to be guided by the natural pitch of the hill—nature taking its course, as the locals might say, was now working for us.

At the bottom of the hill, before making a final left turn as the road approached our driveway, I slowed down even further for a moment to take stock of the situation, to chart the best course for my final hundred yards; and as I was doing so, in my rearview mirror, I caught sight of a rather massive women, with hands on both her hips, up by the boulder, glaring down at me. I could see that clearly as the last of the setting sun poured light directly onto her face, illuminating her eyes which I could distinctly see, in fury, were bearing down on me.

I couldn’t imagine why. More eccentricity? Having a bad day? Who really cared. I was at the end of a good day and I looked forward to making a fire to take the chill out of the house, have some wine now that we were safely off the roads, and crawl into the sumptuous bed stacked with quilts. Again, just what we had been hoping for. I slept without even one disturbing dream.

The next morning, as were heading out to get some coffee, the same neighbor who the afternoon before had been out walking his dog, was in the road and this time he didn’t just nod but stopped to say hello and welcome us. “I see you met Attila the Hun last night.”

Without our caffeine neither Rona nor I are much good that early and so I muttered something, though still trying to sound friendly. “Up there where she lives.” He pointed up toward the top of the hill. “That’s what I call her, Attila. She owns that big house right there at the top. A monstrosity don’t you think?” I didn’t say anything though I did agree it was out of character for the area. But I didn’t want to get into the middle of any feuds—we were here for only two months and wanted to have peace and quiet. “Never should have let her build that place. Looks to me like a pile of junk.” He laughed to himself at that. So heartily that he soon was racked with coughs.

When he regained his breath, he winked and said, “Drove right onto her property last night didn’t you?” He was standing behind our car so there was no way we could, as neighborly as possible, simply get in and drive away. “I saw that.” My heart began to race, thinking I had violated some Maine trespass law and that our stay here was going to turn into a nightmare—I tend to have these dramatic thoughts early in the morning before I’ve had my coffee.

As I was about to try to explain, he waved at me, ”You didn’t do nothing wrong. We all do it.”

“What’s that?” I finally managed to say.

“To get ‘round that big boulder, just like you did, we have to swing a little toward her place. We’re not doing any trespassing,” he had sensed my concern, “You see we all own parts of this road. Like where you’re staying, you own half the road in front of your place and I own the other half. There’s a property line drawn right down the middle.” He pointed at the muddy road, squinting as if to be able to better see the actual line.

“You mean this isn’t a town road? But it has an official-looking street sign and everything.”

“Well, it is and it isn’t. It is but it’s up to us to take care of it. Such as it is.” He pointed, smiling, to all the ruts and holes where we were standing. “You’re wondering, I know, why if we’re responsible for taking acre of that it looks like this. And it’s not because we had so much rain these last few months. Record amounts. It’s ‘cause we like it this way. Sort of natural. But it also slows us down. We want that. What’s the rush? Where you’re trying to get to that’s so important?”

“But if you own this half of the road doesn’t that mean that she owns half of the road by her place?”

“That’s true.”

“Is that why she seemed so angry at us last night? Because we were driving on her piece of the road?”

“That may or may not be true. Though we all own parts of the Loop we and anyone else is allowed to drive it. Like I said, it’s a public road, though we own it. It’s one of those Maine things.” He smiled even more broadly.

“But why do you call her what you called her?”

“You mean Attila the Hun?” I nodded. “Well, she is. She’s the meanest thing in the whole Midcoast. Don’t know what’s her problem. She’s got all the money she’ll ever needs. And though I hate that pile of stuff she calls a house, it’s a big place and worth a fortune, even in these times. She’s also got a bunch of nice kids. All married well and happy. But this is just the way she is. ‘Specially about what she thinks of as her property. Why none of us could get up that hill there without breaking an axle without driving just the way you did last night. I saw you. What you did was all fine and perfectly legal. But she just has a you-know-what up her you-know-what.” He laughed at that again and the fierce coughing resumed. His dog starting barking and he said he’d see us again and, moving aside, let us get into the car and pull out onto the road.

Over coffee I said to Rona that as a little project, while we’re here, why don’t we try to be friendly with Attila. Rona looked at me skeptically as if to say, “We’re here for a short time. These kinds of things here go back years, maybe decades, and so what makes you think you can befriend her? Who needs any aggravation? Just drive up and down the hill as you heard you’re allowed to do and ignore her.”

“Well, I want to try,” I said, reading her thoughts. Rona just smiled at me and shrugged.

Wouldn’t you know it but I had my chance almost immediately when we returned to the Loop after breakfast and stocking up with groceries.

As we approached the hill I slowed down to get us onto the right trajectory and saw her standing there like a sentinel with her ample legs apart and her hands again on her hips. As I steered the car up onto the margin near her, to avoid the boulder, when I felt we were on the right track, I looked up at her—she was no more than a few feet from the car and my window—and with enough coffee in my system to make me feel alert and civil, I looked right at her, smiled, and waved.

In a moment frozen in time, stolid and immobile, she stood there looking back at me with a proverbial if-looks-could-kill glare. As we slid by, when we reached the bottom, Rona, with a sly smile, as if to herself, said, “Quite a project. Quite a little project.”