A rural town in Maine, where there’s nothing to do and everyone knew everybody else’s business, isn’t really the dream place to grow up. As a child, especially in my mid-teens, I was ignorant to the beauty and benefits Maine has to offer. I spent most of my middle and late childhood anticipating the day I would finally be able to pack up, and never look back. I had that chance when I was figuring out what college to go to, but I chose to stay and attended UMaine. I have even traveled the world, and yet, I’m still here. I continuously ask myself why, and the simple answer is Maine is my home.

What exactly makes Maine my home? Is it because it is the state in which I am a resident? Well, yes, but my meaning of home is so much more than a place in which you live.

Let me first shed some light on my background. My father’s parents were born and raised in England, but decided to flee the country with their two year-old son shortly after World War II. After having another three children in Canada, they settled for a short period of time in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where my dad was born, the youngest of seven. However, most of my father’s childhood and young adulthood took place outside of Jacksonville, North Carolina. He had always lived in big cities, until I was born.

My Mother’s family is quite different; she is at least a fifth generation resident of the small town in which I grew up. After high school, she went directly into the navy just like my father. Dad served eight years and got out to marry my mom who retired as a lieutenant after serving twenty years. They were stationed overseas, Washington DC, Hawaii, and Virginia just to name a few places. They could have picked anywhere to spend my mom’s retirement and raise my brother and me. They chose the town my mom had known as a child. The town she wanted to leave behind so bad.

A small part of me resented my parents and their decision to raise my brother and me in a place like rural Maine. As I said, they could have gone anywhere in the world. So, why on earth would she want to come back? Maine was the best place to raise my brother and me, or so they said. Due to my parent’s choice, Maine has been my home for nearly 19 years.

Looking back on my parent’s decision now, I can see growing up in rural Maine wasn’t all that bad. Something I have always loved about Maine are the vast differences in the types of areas it has to offer. There are a few “big” cities that are always buzzing with life and excitement. People dress up in business suits to go to work, get stuck in highway traffic, and there are multiple schools for one area. Maine also has many small towns. Work attire consists of a collared shirt and a clean pair of jeans, the only real traffic to get stuck in is if a moose walks in front of a line of cars, and the populations are so small that the middle school is a part of the high school. There isn’t much offered in a small town, just to get to the nearest mall you’d have to drive at least an hour, but we always found a way to make the most of it.

I grew up going to lakes to swim in the summer and ice fish in the winter, hiked mountains for school field trips, learned that I was horrible at skiing but found a joy in snowboarding, and spent many hours boating down the St. Croix River. I would travel over the river to Canada to see a few friends, go ice skating, and catch a hockey game. I climbed any and every tree in my backyard, built a snow fort that was literally seven feet tall, drove the tractor or lawnmower down the street to visit a friend, went on late night walks to clear my head, and spent most of my free time out to camp. This was a very normal childhood in my town. Parents would let their kids stay at a friend’s camps for days at a time, or drop off their thirteen year-olds at the movies and allow them to walk home. We were never scared to go deep into the woods, or walk a creepy looking path at night not because we were thrill seekers or crazy, but really because we felt safe. Home was safe, and secure.

My home town was most certainly not always this fun, free and peaceful kind of place, however. In town was always busy during the day and especially on weekends; well, as busy as it could get with only 3,000 people in the entire “city.” For the most part, the town had a schedule. People would go back and forth between Canada and the States. They would usually go to Wal-Mart then zip over to either of the two grocery stores. A few here and there would stray to Marden’s for a low price on an item they probably don’t need, or hurry over to True-Value or the new Tractor Supply for their hardware need, or drop in to “State Cinemas” at 7pm sharp to view one of the three movies that were playing. No matter where these people would go, they always returned home for supper and continued in this rut the next day. They were always in a rush to get ultimately nowhere.

Not everyone who takes part in the town “traffic” are stuck in this perpetual rut. Some people only use the town as a pit-stop to buy snacks or use the restroom. Then they drive off going further in the world than most of the town’s people have ever seen, and not even care to acknowledge the name of the small city. I have always envied these people. These people were free to go wherever whenever they wanted. I never liked the routine life. If I ever kept the same routine for more than a week I’d become sad and empty but yet I feel as though I could explode. In hindsight, I spent most of my time driving with no destination in mind because I wanted this freedom. Fortunately, home gave me its own form of freedom.

Something that I have always loved about this rural Maine city was the sense of community. Most residents either grew up in the town then came back to build their family, or have lived there their whole lives. This, plus the small population, resulted in everyone knowing one another. You couldn’t set one foot in the grocery store without stopping to have a chat with a friend. The only acquaintances we had were people who just moved to the area, but they soon became part of our big, crazy family. We all cared for, and looked out for each other. If a kid couldn’t pay for a movie ticket, the owner would let them in for free and was always paid back later by the parents since she knew everyone so well. Even when she became ill with cancer, we all joined together to raise money, run the movie theater, and cook her and her wife massive meals.

Another time that showed just how strong of a community this town is happened in the summer for 2013. My cousin was shot in the back, the bullets going through her and into her six week old son. Her son did not sustain life threatening injuries, but she was not so fortunate. When word got out that the doctors were fairly positive she wouldn’t make it everyone offered there help through prayer, sympathy, and were respectful of my family’s wishes to keep the details out of the media. Her story, however, flooded social media sites. Her parent’s started to receive calls from all over the state telling them they are keeping their daughter and grandson in their thoughts. Without the support of this small community I don’t know how my family would have made it through this tragedy. Thankfully, two weeks after being told she wouldn’t make it she was released from the hospital and has made a full recovery since then. After being let out, the entire town was there to help in any way possible. Maine has a distinct sense of comradery, and I have yet to find a place with this same characteristic.

One of my favorite memories is taking a day to drop everything and just go out to the lake. I wanted to get away from the small town and small minded people, so we hopped in the car and just drove. There is nothing quite like the feeling of the wind whipping through your hair and the warmth of the sun’s summer rays while riding down the back roads going, God only knows how fast. We were teenagers with cars and miles of Maine roads to travel. We had no worries, except the occasional moose crossing the road. You see, it’s not that my home town had no policemen, you just knew how to avoid them long before you were legally allowed to drive. In fact, back roads were how I learned to drive. When I was tall enough to reach the gas pedal and see over the dash, my parents would take me out on dirt roads in all types of weather conditions.

That day, we ended up at the camp on my favorite lake. The first thing I did after getting out of the car was head for the deck. I took a chair facing the lake, it was so peaceful. The water was like glass reflecting the trees on shore, the only thing breaking the silence was the occasional soft call of a loon. No people for miles, no cellphone service at all, no contact with the outside world, it was just us. It felt as though the lake was a world of its very own, existing in another dimension. After taking in the beauty and serenity, we changed into our bathing suits and started up the boat. We were gliding across the water, our waves piercing the glass. I looked at my friend and smiled, I was happy for the first time in a very long time.

When we reached the middle of the lake, I cut the engine and proceeded to jump out of the boat. I was submerged in the fresh, cold water of Maine. My friend and I swam around for what felt like hours, but was probably only half an hour. Once we were finally tired, we climbed back into the boat and started on our way. We didn’t head back to the camp, instead we decided to have some fun. With the engine in full throttle, I made sharp turns, donuts that became small and smaller with each lap, then steered right though the center of the waves I had just created. We were thrown around in our seat, screaming and hollering with laughter.

I wish that moment could have lasted forever, but unfortunately you have to refill the gas tank at some point. We made our way back to camp, resentfully. The sun was beginning to set as we sat in our chairs on the deck talking about anything that came to our minds. Hours pasted before we decided to get back in the car and go home. As I drove home with my window down and radio up, I looked back upon the day I just had and how I was not looking forward to having to deal what was bothering me at the time. That day gave me a feeling that is hard for me to describe. It was like happiness, harmony, and excitement flooded through my body. It felt as though I was a child again, a child with no cares in the world other than to make the most of every moment. It was a feeling of warmth, and I get that feeling whenever I think about Maine.

This memory not only symbolizes Maine, it defines what home is to me. Home is so much more than a building associated with your mailing address, it is more a sense of place than a tangible object. Home is where you know deep down you belong, you feel at peace, a place that is a part of you and helps shape and define you as you grow. Maine is that place for me. Whether I realized it as a young child or not, Maine has always been a part of who I am.

Even though I have travelled to more places than I can honestly remember, I always end back up in Maine. I’ve been to every state on the east coast, Texas, California, Hawaii and a few other states. Furthermore, my travels have not been limited to the United States or Canada. I’ve vacationed in the Bahamas, stayed with friends in Germany, bathed in the culture of Italy, experienced the City of Love in France, and explored all over England. But, no matter where I’ve gone, I have never found a place like Maine.

I have had some bad times in my home town, I even use to say the happiest day of my life would be seeing that small town fade in my rearview mirror. I live on my own now and I am free to go where I please without anyone being able to hold me back. Why don’t I move out of Maine? Now that I am older, I see I don’t ever want a place like Maine to fade from my life. To me, a place like Maine means a place that I cannot only call home, but know inside that it is my home. No town or city or state or even foreign country has given me the same flood of emotions. Maine is truly a unique place with its own unique way of life. No matter how far I go, or how long I am gone for, whenever I see that big “Welcome to Maine” sign, I see “Welcome Back Home.” Wherever life takes me, Maine will forever be my first home.