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Autumn is a Maine event

November 1, 2009 12:36 am

BY BEVERLY MEYER

SWAN'S ISLAND, Maine

The wind-weathered crew lowers the metal gangway, and drivers and walk-ons, including island teens who have spent the day at school on the mainland, disembark.

Already, a line of idling cars and trucks waits for the boat's next departure in 15 minutes.

We wave to one or two familiar faces as we drive past residents seeing off relatives, leaf-peeping day-trippers clustered around a bicycle-laden van, and mainland workmen who chat with each other or doze in their vehicles until it's time for tickets to be collected.

They all may be leaving, but we are arriving for an end-of-season stay at our little cottage nestled in a spruce-lined cove at the head of Burnt Coat Harbor.

It's autumn now, time to clear away summer things and shore up for the winter storms and icy cold sure to begin within a month or two.

We unload provisions, clothes and tools from our pickup and, before anything else, light a snapping fire in the wood stove.

Our dog scampers excitedly around the property, chasing a red squirrel that chatters angrily at him from a safe height on a fragrant branch.

Our cat tiptoes around indoors, exploring the chilly rooms that will be home for the next two weeks.

Outside, beyond the grassy yard, the late afternoon sun glitters on the saltwater tide that fills and empties twice a day.

Overhead we glimpse one of the resident eagles circling, disturbed from its perch in a nearby tall tree by our activities. Its white head contrasts with the dark plumage that keeps it camouflaged much of the time it spends fishing in this cove.

We know that while we're here it will be a solitary stay. Swan's Island is home to only about 300 people, mostly lobstermen and their families, although in summer months the "come heres" like us number two or three times that.

There's only one small store that purveys basic groceries, a post office that also shelters a small library and police/town office, a fishermen's cooperative and private wharf that sell lobster (sometimes as low as $4 a pound!), and a few home-based businesses offering postcards or ice cream to tourists in season.

But now, the summer people are gone, their houses boarded up, the last goodbyes given. For us this time of change is a time of goodbye as well, as the recent passing of time took with it both a close friend and a parent--one still in the fullness of life, one at the cusp.

Yet somehow the sparkling tide in front of the cottage reassures us. Each day it fills and empties without fail, reminding us that the cycles of nature, including living and dying, are beyond our control and must be accepted.

Up the lane we hear lively voices on the school bus as it carries kindergartners through eighth-graders from their modest homes around the small island and takes them to the single schoolhouse up the road by the cemetery.

We may stroll through that cemetery while we're here. Headstones dating back to the early 1800s tell of seafaring men, wives claimed in childbirth, disease or old age, and children who never lived long enough to learn to read.

With the leaves turning gold and red throughout the quiet site, it's a peaceful, reverent place that encourages reflection on the community's history and our own lives.

But Scamp, our dog, doesn't let us linger long. He wants to explore and keep us company as we pull the kayaks up from their grassy summer home by the water, back into the garage.

My husband is eager to start his tasks, such as splitting wood to stack for next year's use.

And it's time for me to shake out the throw rugs, take down curtains and pack up staples from the shelves in our tiny kitchen, ketchup and such that will freeze when the house is closed up for six icy months.

It's refreshing work. And at each day's end, we watch the loons and sea gulls go about their daily foraging for clams and fish in the cove in front of the house.

As it gets dark, we look up at the night sky scattered with twinkling stars and see our breath as the temperature drops.

Smoke from the cheerful wood stove curls lazily from our chimney and wafts over the tops of the silent spruce trees that surround the cottage.

Indoors, with good books to read and glasses of wine to sip, we rejoice together that, in these precious moments, life is good. And if we're lucky, we will return in the spring, as new leaves grow-- and hope with it.

Beverly Meyer: 540/374-5000, ext. 5652; bmeyer@freelancestar .com