No Ordinary Place
by kathleen Fortin
The rain ceased just before we reached Presque Isle.
For the first time, I would see northern Maine’s potato fields.
For years, I’d heard about this area from my husband. Dan
had lived in Presque Isle back in the ‘60s. His father had
taken a transfer to manage the F.W. Woolworth store on
Main Street. After ten years, Dan’s parents decided to move
back to New Hampshire to be closer to their families. They
left Presque Isle right after Dan completed his sophomore
year at the high school. He hadn’t been back since then.
Ever since I first met Dan, I had heard stories
about this place in rural Maine that had all the makings
of what sounded like an idyllic childhood. As far as Dan’s
parents were concerned, his father found his job there most
satisfying and Dan’s mother reflected on Presque Isle, where
they never locked their doors, as the best place to raise the
family. For Dan, the area meant simple memories: long
winters spent tunneling through lofty snow drifts; riding his
bike for hours and hours through a maze of neighborhood
streets; playing army and building forts in the backyard
woods, and catching skippers and building dams in nearby
streams. He was always outdoors is what he has told me.
Most of all, Dan spoke about the fall potato harvest. When
the schools closed for three weeks in mid-September into
October, Dan picked potatoes. So, it was during this time
of year Dan wanted to see Presque Isle again.
When my in-laws first drove to northern Maine,
the trip took eight hours. Today, it takes about six to travel
the 385 miles due north. Back in 1959, Interstate 95 used
to end around Orono. The rest of the way, 175 miles, was
two lanes, 40 miles of which passed through the isolated
Haynesville Woods. This stretch, the Haynesville Road,
inspired one of Maine’s favorite country singers, Dick
Curliss, to create the hit song, A Tombstone Every Mile. Its
54 No Ordinary Place WINTER 2011
lyrics tell the story of the lonely truckers hauling loads of
potatoes across the desolate road they called a ribbon of ice
in winter. It was a road that has “…never, ever, ever, seen a
smile.” Even though, today, the four-lane interstate doesn’t
pass through the same isolated stretch, it is cut through
deep woods that gave me enough of a flavor of what the
old route must have looked like more than fifty years ago.
Seeing this, I understood why my mother-in-law had said to
her husband during their first drive to the county, “Where
are you taking me?” Now, I stood in her shoes. I was about
to find out.
***
About a half mile before we reached the first potato
farm on the right hand side of Route 1, Dan’s instinct told
him we were coming up on it. Right after pointing out
Stewart’s Farm to me, Dan took a sharp left turn onto
Tompkins Road. I knew he was heading somewhere specific.
Soon, he pulled off to the shoulder of the road.
Off to his right Dan recognized the fields and the
barn of the ol’ Duncan Farm, as locals refer to it, as if he
had been there yesterday. This was the site where Dan had
picked potatoes in endless fields and where his friend’s
father had let him drive the farm tractors. He and his friend
had played in that barn until Dan’s eyes were red from the
hay dust. But, today,