Everything is harder when you live in a remote, rural town. Especially on an island. Especially in summer. When George Gershwin wrote about the easy livin’ of summertime, he wasn’t on a Maine island.
Your houseguest’s forgotten prescription? The missing ingredient in the recipe you are making? (It was on the store shelf last week!)
The desperate search to find an electrician, or a plumber, or a carpenter—or really anyone who is handy—when things inevitably fall apart.
These frustrations are of our own making. We live here by choice, after all. It is a lifestyle that favors the patient and the problem-solvers over the rest of the world, where the livin’ is easier.
Those who do choose to stay (and increasingly, those who can afford to stay) live by three simple rules.
Despite assurances from the freight team that our fridge had been delivered, it was not to be found.
First, everything takes longer, or costs more than you plan. Second, Mr. Roger’s advice “to look for the helpers” must have been forged on an island. Bless the extraordinary neighbors who save everything, from small bits of wire, twine, and wrapping paper to vegetable seeds, bobby pins, and tiny gaskets. These are our helpers and our life savers. Third, plan for the worst and hope to be delighted.
It’s very difficult for others to understand the ebb and flow of a ferry schedule, or the way the tides or weather affect barge services.
On an island, anything that actually gets fixed or delivered is a small, daily miracle.
Take our new refrigerator, for example. It was lost at sea for two days. After 26 years, our reliable old Sears and Roebuck Kenmore refrigerator was giving up the ghost. We hated to see it go, not because it hadn’t done its duty over the decades and served us well, and not because it had incurred some unattractive dents across the years. We hated to say goodbye because getting a new refrigerator was surely going to be a hassle. We weren’t disappointed.
My husband, originally from San Diego, but rapidly learning the ways of life here, planned the delivery carefully. He researched the new models, took copious measurements, removed doors from hinges, and hinges from doors.
He lined up local help to take away the old and deliver the new. He conferred with the freight team at the ferry terminal and roughly knew when the fridge would arrive. He greeted each ferry expectantly. And he waited.
Despite assurances from the freight team that our fridge had been delivered, it was not to be found. Lose a box of groceries? Maybe. But a refrigerator?
Adventure and sleuthing ensued. My husband was hot on the trail. The mystery was finally solved: Our refrigerator had indeed been delivered. To a wharf… on another island.
Islanders know that nearly everything eventually finds its way home. Our refrigerator is no exception. It continued its travels down Casco Bay and is now stationed in our kitchen, a reassuring reminder of the dozens of things that go right every single day to keep island life humming along.
These days, it’s easy to lose sight of what’s important, to fret over the annoyances and inconveniences of our lives. But living on an island teaches us a valuable lesson. Resilience, patience, determination, neighborliness, and gratitude form the warp and weft of community living.
In a world that values speed, technology, and even divisiveness, these words might ring of nostalgia and sentimentality. For those of us who choose to live where the living isn’t easy, however, we know that this tightly woven fabric is the only thing that truly matters.
Kim Hamilton is president of Island Institute, publisher of The Working Waterfront. She may be contacted at khamilton@islandinstitute.org.
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