Well, it has certainly been a while. I would like to say that I have been sans communication devices because I have been living out of a duffel bag, traveling to remote corners of the world, chasing powder on mountain peaks near and far, and generally living a life that would make even the most seasoned thrill-seeker jealous. However, that is not the case. I have simply been busy enjoying the married life--really, in all seriousness--and everything that goes along with it. The addition of a house and another dog, and the day-to-day security of steady employment have long since put many other activities on the ever simmering back burner. However, the beauty of turning over new leaves is that, sometimes, it allows you to rediscover passions of old.
Identification. All people, from all corners of the globe, from all walks of life, in all shapes and forms, identify. We look to have an identity that is all our own, or at least carve out a uniqueness in some larger classification. Part of growing up is finding one's own identity in a seemingly endless sea of possibilities. Preppy? Slacker? Jock? Hippie? Nerd? Punk? Hick? Intellectual? Liberal? Conservative?. . . The list goes on and on. I, over the course of my years, was able to identify with many groups and many different people. Though I have no long since left my teenage years, identity is still nothing that is set in stone. I now reside south of the Mason-Dixon, but I will always identify with New England--specifically, and most importantly, with Maine.
If you don't know people from Maine, sorry. At the risk of sounding elitist and playing favorites, there simply are no other people like us. Sure, Bostonians may sound similar, come from similar backgrounds, and, until 1820 were citizens of the same state, but there is something simply Maine about those who reside North and East of New Hampshire. Though it is a diverse state, inhabited by lobstermen, business owners, potato farmers, loggers, hunters, mountain dwellers, Independents, staunch Democrats and Republicans, organic co-op members, chamber of commerce members, Saab drivers, and Chevy loyalists, everyone can identify with the state that is first to see the sun rise. It is a common saying, maybe just meant to usurp the burden of explanation: "if you're not from here, you wouldn't understand." I guess that is probably true of a lot of places. I have lived in New Hampshire and the licesne plate is true: Live Free or Die. Boston fosters a brotherhood from Chelsea to Canton, Brookline to Boxboro, Dorchester to Danvers, and the Flat-of-Beacon Hill to Foxborough. Baltimore, hon is all about crabs, lacrosse, hostory, and tradition. It is as much an old port city with distinct neighborhoods as any city I have visited, and I am proud to call it home. . . It is just that, I will always identify as a Mainah (that's how we say it up there. . . North of Freeport, that is).
The holidays had me reflecting on life, family, and the idea of home. My mother, knowing my deep roots, sent me a Maine state flag and a t-shirt that had the outline of Maine above the word HOME (available at http://www.thehomeshirt.com). Of course, that got me thinking of all things Maine and my friends and family that were still there or had ventured away and moved back. Ahh, memories.
This past weekend, I had a chance to head to the mountains (or so they are called) in Pennsylvania for a day on the snow. This may not sound like much, but being that a great part of my identity came from time (every free moment from mid November to late April) spent on a snowboard in the mountains of Western Maine and greater New England, it was an instant rush to be returned to a familiar place--all be it not quite what I was used to. However, the mechanics came back, the feeling was still the same, the excitement was still there. If not home, I was at least in familiar territory. Being in the company of people that shared in that excitement and were out there for the same reasons really reminded my why I do identify with and long to be in the mountains. It also made me homesick. Though the feeling can be recreated, it can never be duplicated. There is nothing that beats riding twelve people deep on a sunny powder day at Sugarloaf when those eleven other people are some of your closest and dearest friends and family.
So, with this longing for things past, I was also inspired to try my hand at something new. With the boiling of water, the addition of malted barley, hopps, yeast, and a little sugar, I have begun brewing my first batch of beer: a Norther Sierra Pale Ale. I have high hopes, but realistic expectations. All has gone according to plan, but you know what they say about the best laid plans. As with everything in life, there is a learning curve, and I am sure home brewing will be no different.
Maybe it is the no-frills attitude of my parents and grandparents. Maybe it is the anti-bullshit platform on which much of my home state is built. Maybe it is the rugged individualism that is common in New England and embodied in Maine. Maybe it is a combination of all that I was originally, all that I have added, and all that I am now. Maybe it is everything. Maybe it is nothing. One thing is for sure, we can always look ahead, but to appreciate where we are going we have to know where we have been.
Welcome home.
*Photo: Primary fermentation, week one--Baltimore, Maryland.
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