Even though I was subbing that day in the French department at Lewiston High School, I had found that the people in the English department were more likely to provide me with interesting conversation -- literature (around what they were teaching and so were familiar with details of the texts), politics (of the liberal sort which was easier to come by in those days of Jimmy Carter), and life in general.
At lunch break, I had made my way up to the English department, climbing the wide stairs in the "tower" and then walking down the wide hall that led to the English break room. There I settled in with my lunch. I don't remember what it might have been other than it was vegetarian. Then, as today, being a vegetarian was a life choice that I was pleased with and proud about but a choice that often complicated my life. Here I was back in Lewiston -- how can I describe it other than as a town for whom the term provincial might have been created or, had we had back waters in Maine, as a backwater -- and I was still a man alone. At 28, I had lived in several major cities -- Washington, D.C., San Francisco, Montreal -- where one has to suppose that there was a plethora of vegetarian women looking for a well-educated, sensitive man.But, their numbers, being what they may have been, did not present me with a mate. (Alas, there was no kindness even in numbers.) Now I was in Lewiston, home of Franco-American creton, tourtiere, and boudin (one would think my Canadian ancestors had raised nothing but pork!), assessing where I might go next, what I might do, and, most importantly, who I might become. And the thought was inescapable: if I had not found a loving, relational vegetarian woman in a large city how was I going to find her here? For the time being, I was bivouacking at my parents' home. Said Robert Frost in Death of the Hired Man, "Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in." I was appreciative of my parents taking me in for a few months and hoping, unlike Frost's hired man, that I was not coming to die in some symbolic way. No, I was contemplating what I might commit myself to next. I was "in between." The freelance writing that I had been engaged in for some time was often satisfying for me. It was independent work -- all my life I have preferred work and sports that could be engaged in alone. It put me in contact with interesting people, but it didn't produce income quite regularly enough -- nor lucratively enough -- and I did not yet understand the business end of such an enterprise. For the time being, I didn't mind doing the subbing, but, ever the optimist, I was hoping that something would come through with the writing that held more promise, more income. And I was perhaps open even to the possibility that the solution might lie completely elsewhere -- although I was hoping that it would not lie in five high school freshman classes. Meanwhile, I was sensing that I was very good at teaching French, having just come from 14 months of living in Quebec, certainly better than some of the anglophone teachers whose French was frankly abysmal. I also had an MA in Education which, although pursued a bit reluctantly in a personal defense against the senseless Vietnam War, had provided me with a number of skills which I could now call on. Why would I not then want to do something I was good at? I just didn't. At that lunch break, perhaps Fred McCormack was speaking, a big, chubby man, a teddy bear, who, as an extrovert, had a tendency to take the floor and entertain. From around the corner, a young woman entered the room. She had thick, shoulder length hair that was pushed back from her forehead and held in place with a band. She was trim, and how can I not admit I took her figure in immediately! How can one describe the magnetism that occurs when a young man unattached and in search of a woman and a young woman, equally unattached and in search of a man, come face to face. How can one describe that moment when they are attracted but are too shy to respond to their attraction -- or too confused to realize just then what they are feeling? Perhaps I looked away or perhaps she did, too. I don't remember what happened other than that as soon as she left, I managed to ask in my best "the answer doesn't mean much to me but I'm just curious" voice, "Who was that?" 
(Later, she told me that she came back in a subsequent period and asked who that new man was in the break room? "You were much more interesting looking than other men I saw around," she said much later.) Her name was Martha Blowen. Blowen is a Welsh name (according to her father whom I was months from meeting). But, I did not have the name in front of me in black and white. What I heard was Martha Blouin -- a perfectly good French name. Martha was also a substitute, replacing Selma Nelson who was away for the semester with her Bates College Shakespeare professor husband David as he was leading a group of students on a semester abroad in Great Britain. Stratford-on-Avon and that sort of thing. As a transfer student from Cape Cod Community College where she had a 4.0 the last semester, Martha had not had quite the requisite number of credits to finish with her Bates classmates the previous June and so she had had to finish her English literature course load the following fall. David Nelson's winter-spring semester abroad with his wife in tow left a vacancy at Lewiston High School which was propitious for Martha. She was out of college in mid-winter without a job. Would she be interested in replacing his wife? her English teacher asked. His wife could suggest her name to the principal. And so Martha had entered into a system that would place her and me in love's way. I had joined a natural-foods co-op which, in those days of more generous government grants to launch such endeavors, served a need in the community where Kraft cheese and Kellogg cereals dominated the kitchen table. It was there, in the coop storefront, after having returned to the English break room on several occasions only to miss the elusive Martha Blouin, that I came across her in front of the bread counter. She was with her friend and roommate, Victoria Wallins, and she was delivering bread that she made for the coop under the name "Mother Martha's Home-made Bread." (Even then, Martha loved to cook.) Perhaps it was in the coop on Lowell Street that I noticed her blue eyes and the interesting gap in her front teeth -- both assets I was sure. We talked some -- a bit awkwardly as I remember -- and then went on. Damn, what is the matter with me! Exhilarated with the encounter, however, I talked myself into mustering my courage. I would ask her if she would like to do something with me -- go for a bike ride or a walk? "Ok, here I go," I said to myself some time later and looked up Blouin, Martha in the phone book. Alas, there was no listing. I would have to wait for another opportunity at the English break room. (It didn't even occur to me to ask anyone how Blouin was spelled as it is a common French name.) For a while, our paths did not cross. I sold a few articles not enough to give up subbing, but enough to make me hope that I might some day, soon. My parents were away for a while -- three weeks -- on a trip to California and then they were back. (Being on the other side of parenting now, I can appreciate the gift of allowing me to invade their space.) My parents did not have many books at home and I did not have much money to buy any so I went to the public library frequently. It was there, as I was leaving one late spring day, that, coming up the stairs, wearing a jean jumper that fit her advantageously, her very full head of hair again pulled back with a band, that I saw the very attractive Martha Blouin. In the parlance of the time, I remember thinking, "What a foxy chick!" (The terminology embarrasses me now but it certainly captures still what I was feeling as I noticed her rushing up the stairs!) We spoke, nervously I'm sure, as that is how I would have been -- a decisive Lothario I was not -- and, wanting to know how I could reach her, I asked how come she didn't have a phone. "I do," she said. "It's not listed?" "Yes, under my name!" "I was wondering if you wanted to do something with me, go for a walk or have a drink? I tried finding your number but there was not listing under Blouin." I pronounced it Blue-ein (not really quite the right pronunciation but, if you don't speak French, you've come close enough). As she did all the time in this city that was 60% Canadian I was to learn, she replied, "I'm not French. The name is B-L-O-W-E-N -- Blow-in." Well, there went the idea of a good French girl to introduce to my mother! But, better than any idea was what I found that spring: the woman I would eventually decide to spend my life with. 
And yes, in Lewiston Maine, the most provincial of towns, I found what I had not found in many large cities, a woman who turned out to be vegetarian with whom I would raise vegetarian children! But, it would take a while for us to understand that we could make a life together. I used to say that when I met Martha I felt something in my soul stir, but it would take a while for me -- and her -- to know that that soul attraction could also create a daily life together. To send one of your stories, contact Denis at denis@turningmemories.com. He'd love to hear from you. |