"Where I lived and what I lived for"--who can tell me where this is from?

I have always had a difficult time understanding my friend Johnny Crockett. After college, he quickly moved out to the Lake Tahoe regions of California and Nevada. He is thousands of miles away from his family and friends, only getting to see them maybe once or twice a year at that. Yet, he has been out there for something like five years, and doesn’t seem to mind the sacrifice he has made (at least I haven never heard any negativity). But, lately, I feel as though I am beginning to understand his logic.

Amanda and I made a lot of sacrifices when we moved to Fairfield, Maine. Obviously, we are 200 miles away from family and friends—not 3,000—but in a lot of ways, its not the number of miles which divide us. First, I left behind my family and close friends from home when I decided to “stay” at UNH and continue dating this funny little girl from Mount Vernon, Maine, leaving behind regular Saturday lunches with my dad, the opportunity to take care of my mom while dealing with breast cancer, and the chance to get to know my godson J.J. and his dirtbag father the way I want to. Second, Amanda and I left behind tons when we moved from the seacoast NH area up to central Maine so I could join the faculty at Winslow. Nothing can replace gourmet dinners and Fort McClary walks with the Strazzes. It would be fantastic to share a few pints of Newcastle and beautiful music with Craig and Liz Werth. We often reflect about hikes up Mt. Blue Jobe with the Clauss-Veals to procure hoards of Tupperware containers filled with blueberries. Sadly, some dear friends from our “former life” in the Portsmouth area have become a thing of the past, never to be heard from again.

Why did we do this? What makes Johnny Crockett live his life so ferociously in Nevada, having daily adventures that make most people jealous? What makes the Goldsmiths leave behind such dear friends and family just to start something completely new up in Fairfield, Maine? I think, in many ways, the answer is unknown even to the people living the life—questions are aplenty as to what we are doing here, or why we moved so far away, etc. I have no idea what we are doing up here, except that it just feels right. We love our home, we love our town, we love our woodstove, and we love Hillman’s Bakery. I have found great ponds for trout, and great rivers for paddling. I know where to buy the best organic homegrown tomatoes, and we have discovered the best fried oysters in the world. I guess you find things that you make intrinsically YOURS, and you create home all over again.

We get to see these friends and family to the extent of afternoons in Portland, or a day in Massachusetts, but its hardly enough. The thing we miss the most is the great gift of calling these wonderful people, and planning something completely random and impromptu—dare I say that is where you make the most memorable moments. Its funny, it really is. I thought about this over the past weekend, when we were down in CT, and had the pleasure of seeing my parents—Mom on Saturday, and Dad and Babs on Sunday. Its sad limiting these visits to 4 or 5 hours, and then having them leave, but I guess that’s just the way it is—Amanda and I just enjoy the time we have, and continue to hope that Mom and Bob come up for a visit soon, and Dad and Barbara really do come to their senses and move to Maine. These are things Amanda and I reflect on while we make the long drive back up route 95. But we have no longstanding regrets. We still rejoice when we cross the beautiful bridge leading us over the Pisquatiqua River, over the place we once both lived and loved so deeply, and back into Maine. And we smile lightheartedly when we pull into our driveway, beforehand waving to our neighbor Bill, who is the unofficial “neighborhood captain,” and could tell you just about anything you ever wanted to know about anyone on Military Ave. Its unexplainable why we left so much behind. But I hope my parents, sister, and brother-in-law know how much we love them, and how things like wheelbarrow fires, “Philadelphia at ease,” “Movie Stars . . .WHAT?,” gyrating Chinese women, black leather stools, and digital head shots—things that the average reader to this blog wouldn’t understand—are so meaningful and lovely to us. And Sarah, (who I know reads this even though she never calls me back) I hope you know how much you and Timmer are loved and missed, and how Baxter State Park, Michael Moore, goat cheese, stories of Tim’s conception, hitting my head on street signs while running, and drowning will never be the same with anyone else. . . .