Strange New England

It is night. Darkness has fallen over the September night as the half moon rises and the stars begin to fill the sky over Penobscot Bay. Sometimes the night falls so deeply here in this Maine  hamlet that it seems like the Sun might never rise again. It is a darkness full of potential.  The year is 1898 and you are walking along a dark path in the small coastal town of Bucksport, Maine. You are alone, quite alone. You are sure of it. In the distance, you can see the vague outline of ships in the harbor and lights in the windows of the townspeople in houses you know well, for you are worker, a cleaner, a hired servant willing to scrub and polish and shine the possessions of others to make your living. For some, this might be a happy lot, but not for you.  These people for whom you work could be your friends and compatriots, but that is not the case.   You are, and forever will be, from away. These people are not your people and you are not one of them, but as you walk carefully along the lane, you remember you