Arrive - November/December 2013

There was a For Sale sign out front,
with the name and phone number
of the real estate agent emblazoned
alongside. During lunch at a nearby
restaurant I called the guy. An hour
later we were inspecting the property.
A gay couple owned it—a school-
teacher and an art curator for the state
of Maine. And though they were both
clearly living on modest civil service
salaries, they had managed to make
the home elegant in its arts-and-
crafts-style simplicity. Yes, it needed a
new kitchen. And yes, the bathrooms
needed updating. But there were three
bedrooms and an elegant double liv-
ing room, and a grand loft of over 700
square feet that could (somewhere
studio. And the true coup de theatre was
a small but immaculately positioned
sunroom that faced the half-acre gar-
den and provided for a wondrous pan-
orama of the bay.

“Can we call this ours, Daddy?” my daughter asked, sounding very Jane Austen-esque. ( Well, she is rather English).

The real estate agent and I huddled in a corner. I mentioned a figure. The agent asked me to raise it by $10,000, then asked if I could put a $1,000 deposit down right away. I agreed. We said a momentary adieu to the agent, walked up to Main Street and found an ATM, from which I withdrew a cool thousand. Then we spent half an hour exploring Wiscasset and actually saw that the town lived up to its “Prettiest Village in Maine” boast. In fact, it was something of a colonial architecture showpiece: a wondrous collection of imposing mansions and sternly steepled churches paired with a plethora of white clapboard, a venerable small railway station, Red’s Eats lobster shack (home of the best lobster roll in Maine) and water every where.

“It is so beautiful here,” Amelia said.

“You are going to buy the house, right?” Max asked, clearly approving of what he was seeing.

“Let’s see if the offer is accepted.”
When we reached the real estate
office half an hour later we discovered
that, indeed, we had a deal. I forked
over the thousand dollars. Papers
were signed. And as we finally headed
north toward our original destina-
tion of Rockland, my head buzzing
with bemused wonder about all that
had just transpired, one thought kept
dancing around my brain: So I am
finally coming home.

A year later and I am on my front lawn in Wiscasset with Max, teaching him how to throw a baseball and use a mitt (skills he was never taught in London). Meanwhile, Amelia is in the sunroom, reading for the first time that classic of adolescent angst, The Catcher in the Rye. It’s an impeccable