I promised my friend Jaxon I would work the word “hobo” into a blog post this week. Yesterday morning, I woke up to the sound of ocean waves hitting the prehistoric rocks of the Schoodic peninsula and there were no hobos in sight. There was only fog and the throaty hum of lobster boats heading out.
Along the roads in that world, blueberries grow.
Back here at home, there’s a Schoodic-like fog this morning. It’s good for remembering and contemplating the time away.
In my travels, I found Louise Dickinson Rich’s 1958 book The Peninsula. It begins with these sentences:
“Most of us, I suppose, at one time or another experience a longing for another way of life. Suddenly our days and our energies seem to be expended on trivia. We are overcome by a sense of being alien, of not belonging in the world in which we find ourselves, of being out of step with the times and out of sympathy with the attitudes that we encounter. We are hungry for the fundamentals—for the satisfaction of wresting food from the stubborn earth, of raising our own rooftrees with our own hand, of combating successfully man’s implacable, hereditary foes, the wind and the weather. We suffer a great nostalgia, which means a sickness to return home.”
There’s no time today for writing more about the land of rocks that fall from the sky, ship captains, and Daughters of the American Revolution.
The latter, from my introduction to them, certainly do not fall in the category of hobos.