Stories
The far shore of the lake is shrouded in a dense fog this morning, and there’s no birdsong to speak of, eerie. But fitting, given that we visited the home of Stephen King yesterday in Bangor, Maine. We must have stopped by just long enough for his spirit to catch our scent and hear that I’ve never read one of his books. I promised my traveling companions I’d remedy that oversight, so this morning’s fog is probably only a reminder.
Luckily, King's spirit chose to let me sleep the night through, and I did, having spent a long day traveling and celebrating my birthday. We visited Fort Knox and the Penobscot Bridge Observatory, a two for one deal since they occupy opposite ends of the same site. The views were fine in both places and I bought a biography of Henry Knox to add further depth to my visit. We finished up our trip with lunch in Bucksport right across the river.
I love the history of the east coast. My local Texas history is a little thin, much like the topsoil of the Hill Country I call home. East coast history is dense and thick much like the forests that line its shores. From here I can feel the tug of the nation’s home country, England, and its even richer history. From there it’s a short hop into all the other countries that fed the growth of our nation, and I like all of those stories, too, rich and varied. And it always makes me wonder how we manage to forget from time to time that we’re a nation of immigrants.