Temple Stream: A Rural Odyssey by Bill Roorbach

Author:Bill Roorbach [Roorbach, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, Literary Figures, nature, Ecosystems & Habitats, Rivers
ISBN: 9781608933945
Google: P_2ACgAAQBAJ
Publisher: Down East Books
Published: 2014-12-07T23:42:16.397536+00:00

FLASH FORWARD TO THE SPRING OF 2000. ONE EARLY APRIL morning, sleepless with her pregnancy, Juliet woke me, said: “We have to leave Ohio.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Promise me,” she said.

I promised, just couldn’t say when. I knew at least that we’d spend the summer in Maine—her last trimester—and that I’d be on leave from Ohio State again in the fall: the baby would be born in Farmington.

In the high stack of forwarded mail that had accumulated during our New York trip (and my solo mission to Maine) came a small padded envelope from Ms. Bollocks, the sort you buy at the post office: inside was a squashed Animal Crackers box containing three hundred forty extremely wrinkled, pawed, and greasy one-dollar bills along with two crumpled receipts, one for a Sawzall ferrule and blades (she’d shopped for these in Pennsylvania), one for the padded envelope. There was also a dim photocopy of a months-old electric bill, copiously marked in red pen, various amounts underlined, crossed out, added, and readded. A triple circle surrounded just the number thirty-four in the bottom line (at least two months unpaid), which in full was one hundred thirty-four. Refrigerator!!! was the only notation. The four dollars unaccounted for after that, I knew, was for the postage, rounded up. In the stack of mail, too, in a red-bordered envelope, lurked a shutoff notice from Central Maine Power. The cutoff date—which was not only Ms. Bollock’s problem—had been March 20, first day of spring, the very day I’d prowled my own property on snowshoes and watched the ice go out.

In the same pile of mail there was a postcard—image of a sand dune—no return address, Massachusetts postmark, deteriorated handwriting: Connie Nosalli was ill. She didn’t say what was wrong, or how serious just like her, of course), and despite best intentions I didn’t manage to write back: I’d get to it eventually.

In mid-May there was another letter from Farmington. I braced myself for more bad news. But no. The handwriting was backslanted, large, a child’s. The paper was heavily wrinkled, with a deep fold down the center, and the typing upon it was my own:

TO: BILL . . . FROM: COLLEEN CALLAHAN

FARMINGTON ME

1.As exactly as you can: where did you find your bottle?

I FOUND THE BOTTLE 200 YARDS NORTH OF

THE IWIN BRIDGES IN FARMINGTON

2. On what date?

MAY 7, 2000

3. In what circumstances? That is, what were you doing when you happened on your bottle?

ME AND MY FAMILY WERE FIDDLEHEADING.

AND I TOBBLED ACROSS THE BOTTLE.

4. Who are you?

I AM A STUDENT AT CASCADE BROOK SCHOOL,

FOURTH GRADE. MR. HARDY’S CLASS. I LIVE ON

PORTER HILL. I’M TEN YEARS OLD TOO!

5. Add any notes or information or anything at all you’d like.

WHERE DID YOU TOSS THE BOTTLE? WHO ARE

YOU? IS THIS THE ONLY BOTTLE? HOW MANY

HAVE YOU GOTTEN BACK? WILL YOU WRITE ME

BACK PLEASE? I WOULD LIKE YOU TO WRITE

BACK!

THANKS! COLLEEN CALLAHAN

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