Madawaska

In yon olden days

before the crush for absolute efficiency,

my dad's job

had him on the road

virtually indefinitely,

the reason we moved to Maine,

so he could make trips

to places like Madawaska

and it would seem

slightly more reasonable,

but while he was gone

it never really occurred to me

at the time

that he had a whole life

until he talked about it years later,

and recently

I took some notes,

recording familiar anecdotes,

such as the priest who mistook him for a priest

because of the suitcase he took to mass one day.

Someday I make the trip

to Madawaska.

From Maine to Maine

The haul up to Orono

was still long, mind you,

but it was considerably shorter

than the one to Erie,

and incidentally,

logged in most of the time

I've personally

spent behind a wheel

(and also by far my favorite).

In some alternate life

I ended up living in Bangor,

which by the way

ought to rhyme

with "bang her,"

not the way

I always pronounced it.

From Maine to Erie

My dad's job literally used to be

traveling long distances,

once we got to Maine,

all the way to Madawaska,

so when he started to complain

about the trip to Erie,

you knew it was a long slog.

My oldest brother

was the one

who initiated those trips

when he was accepted

to Mercyhurst,

but I spent my freshmen year there, too,

but my dad,

who by the way

spent many years

occasionally making the trip

down to New Jersey

so we could hang out

with our favorite relatives,

finally had enough of that,

and so that came to an end.

From Maine to Rhode Island

In my first decade

we traveled back to Rhode Island

so often

it was a regular way of life

to spend long stretches of time

on the road.

We visited my mom's dad

and her family

but also my dad's

over in nearby Blackstone,

which later it was made clear

in the short walks we could take

from one to the other,

which might be

one of the secret origins

of why I walk so much

today.

From Rhode Island to Maine

I'm pretty sure

it was 1983

when the Laplumes packed up

and moved to Maine.

Like my mother's side,

we lived in Rhode Island,

and although I don't remember

except the plastic Budweiser mug my dad used to have,

much about living in Rhode Island,

I remember packing the moving van

and heading off to Maine,

moving into the apartment in Lewiston,

the whole process

of the house of Dumas Street,

which was virtually empty

when we got there,

being built

from the ground up

(and the beer cans,

and the smell of beer

those cans left

in their wake).

They always say

you can't rely 

on the early memories

of the young,

but they exist.

Maine Before Maine

I've never been good enough

at listening to the stories

my family tells

about family history,

and I'm forever beating myself up

about this.

I've listened to my dad's stories

countless times,

about how his dad

used to come up to Maine

to fish.

This was before our family,

my family,

moved to Maine.

My dad grew up in Massachusetts;

when I've tried to research

his family tree,

I think I find his missing grandfather

in Maine,

and really,

this isn't so mysterious;

Maine used to belong

to Massachusetts,

after all,

and they're both snug up in New England,

which people in New England

have a much different idea about

than probably anyone else

in the country.

But still,

on the intimate scale,

it's interesting to think

of the prehistory

sitting there,

wondering if it ever occurred

to my grandfather

so live in Maine,

the way his son would,

the way I did,

and will perhaps,

the heart ever fond

of previous things,

again.

The last time we spoke about it,

he said they fished

on an Indian reservation,

which probably means

Penobscot.

I'll have to wait

or outright ask,

which lake.

Anyway, 

this is to say,

even if your memory

struggles to grasp

the details,

try and listen

when your family speaks

about its history.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Anyone taking a deep dive

into my poetry

will know

I hold Robert Pirsig

in considerable esteem;

there has never been a philosopher

who has held greater fascination

for me.

He wrote two books,

both of them personal journeys,

the first of which

still holds cult status

as he tries to explain

his relationship with his son

through motorcycles,

something we still mistake

as the realm

of roving gangs in leather

with fancy club names

and possibly undeserved reputations.

Pirsig was a scholar,

the last of a previous breed,

who talked of chautauquas,

a more civilized version

of later hippy culture

that perhaps greater emphasized

the culture aspect,

a circus for the mind,

not hallucinogenic

but expanding its potential

to learn,

what we now think

only institutions behind walls

can provide.

Sometimes you lose something

by locking it away permanently

somewhere.

Pirsig may have struggled

to reach his conclusions

but it was worth it.

Oh, it was worth it.

And the freedom he found

was, and still is,

out there.