Author: O.Henry Magazine

During the decades we lived on a forested hill in Mid-Coast Maine, October’s arrival was greeted with relief and joy.

To begin with, it signaled the final exodus of summer tourists, who left behind their spending money in the pockets of local businesses. The cost of a seafood supper roughly halved and it was possible to venture into town to lunch with friends without being caught in a traffic jam. By mid-month, even the annual invasion of “leaf peepers” was drawing to a close.

On our hilltop, we watched the 500-acre forest around us erupt into a dazzling pageant-fire of golds and reds, and wildlife grew more active as the days grew shorter.

I remember walking down our long gravel driveway to fetch the afternoon mail with my toddler daughter, Maggie, and pausing to watch a flock of ring-necked pheasants calmly cross our path, spectacular creatures completely unconcerned by our presence.

The family of white-tailed deer that inhabited our forest could be seen most October evenings finishing off the last of the hostas, which I had strategically planted at the rear of our property to keep them away from the house in high garden season. We were often visited by beavers and skunks and, on one memorable occasion, a gangly, young male moose harmlessly crossing our upland meadow to the late summer bog where bullfrogs croaked at night. The fireflies were gone by then, replaced by the lonely cry of coyotes deep in the woods.

October is a time of serious preparation in Maine. For the last time of the year, somewhere around mid-month, I mowed the half-acre of grass that surrounded our hilltop lilium and put away my beloved John Deere lawn tractor until next spring. I also cut down and raked out several large perennial beds, and split and stacked hardwood for an hour each day, preparing our wood pile for the cold days and nights just ahead. October was the month of our first evening fire, something we all looked forward to.

The last warm days of the month were a bonus. We packed up a picnic and took the kids to one of our favorite spots, Popham Beach State Park, a spectacular 3-mile sandy spit near the mouth of the Kennebec River, where a short-lived colony was established in 1607. Popham was — and probably still is — the most popular beach in Maine. But, by October, the beach belonged again to the locals. Our children, far-flung and now in their 20s and 30s, have fond memories of walking out to the famous “Rock Island” at low tide and swimming in the ocean, warmed ever so slightly by the summer’s passing. On the way home, if the timing was right, we stopped off at our favorite seafood shack at Five Islands for fried clams and blueberry ice cream, even as its owner was preparing to shut down for the season.

The decision to sell our beloved house in 2008 was possibly the toughest one we’ve ever had to make. A year before, however, we moved to North Carolina, foolishly believing that we would simply keep our precious Maine house and return to it each summer. But, after letting it sit empty with only a caretaker looking after it for one full winter, it became clear that this was a recipe for trouble. Maine winters are tough on people and houses alike. We reluctantly decided to sell the place to a charming young couple from Connecticut who dreamed of making my dream house theirs.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Thanks to a national collapsing housing market and the start of the Great Recession, the sweet couple from Connecticut failed to sell their house in time, and we wound up selling to a couple from Massachusetts, who got a sensational deal. The wife adored the gardens and the quiet of the forest. The husband, however, complained that the house’s exposed hemlock beams made the interior “look unfinished.” He also didn’t like the closets or the notches on the rear of the utility door that memorialized the growth of our four kids.

I nearly backed out of the deal, but finally signed because the woman loved the place.

I stayed out of Maine for more than a decade, joking to friends that it was too soon to return and risk never coming back. That hilltop, after all, is where I designed, built and owned my first house, got married and had my children, created my first garden, and stayed longer than anywhere else. If you are curious to see why it will forever own a piece of my heart, try googling “Zillow, Topsham Maine, 12 East Merrill  Road.”

Looking back, however, coming home to North Carolina was one of the wisest moves we ever made. Over 17 years, I’ve had the opportunity to create four arts magazines, publish nine books, and make scores of new friends while deepening my oldest friendships. Moreover, during the past decade, we’ve fully restored a lovely mid-century house in my boyhood neighborhood, just two doors down from the house where I grew up. Talk about a spiritual homecoming.

Fortunately, Octobers here are also spectacular. The murderous heat of summer is finally gone, the garden is winding down for another year, the night skies are clearer, and Piedmont North Carolina kindles its own breathtaking pageant-fire of leaves.

But every now and then I have dreams about our old house in Maine.

Invariably, it’s October in this dream and I’m walking through the empty rooms of our old place, wondering what will come of it now that I’m long gone. You see, I never went back there to see it.

Not long ago, however, my savvy wife, Wendy, proposed a cure for my October dreams.

Next year, either in September or October, we plan to rent a house somewhere on the coast of Maine.

Who knows? Maybe when I’m there I’ll dream about our wonderful house and garden back in Carolina.