Hometowns

The sounds of the rickety Volvo clanked along through the snowstorm–the dim headlights peered past the first house of the town, lighting a sign that read “Welcome to” with the town name shrouded in a thick coating of the heavy sticky, wet, snow that was falling on the December ground. The general store towards the center of town was decorated for Christmas with a brightly lit tree in the window, fighting off the darkness outside. The short distance that the headlights penetrated into the snow revealed a figure on the side of the roadway, evidently struggling to keep warm. The headlights illuminated a feeble hand raised and a thumb in the air. The driver contemplated if he should take on the passenger, but decided that he had best stop because of the snowstorm. The car pulled to a stop and the driver leaned over, struggling to lower the window with the crank handle. The driver inquired bluntly, “Where ya headed?” 

The figure on the sidewalk replied quickly, “North, offa Route 6 in Jackson.'' 

The driver leaned over again and opened the door, replying, “I can drop you off. I’m headed all the way up, near Fort Kent.'' 

The figure, who the driver recognized as a younger woman about his age, quickly got in, lightly brushing off the snow from her clothing and fastening her seatbelt. The drive to Bonville was rather quiet–a simple exchange of names was the extent of the conversation. The driver, Gregory, learned the passenger’s name was Samantha, and the two sat in silence until just past Tipstown on a dirt connecting road from Route 4 to Route 6, when the deep snowfall bogged down the cranky car. The rear wheels spun and screamed against the snow but to no avail. The car was stuck fast in the snow, and the passengers had no hope of getting any cell service to call a tow truck. The pair remained in the vehicle to wait for a passing car to bring help. Soon, rather out of the blue, Gregory spoke: “This reminds me,” he said. “This reminds me of my childhood. We used to get the worst snowstorms, and the power would go out, and we’d just sit there, me and my family, in the dark and watch the snow fall outside.”

“How funny,” Samantha replied. “I was thinking the same, it was always so quiet, so peaceful.” 

After a long pause, Samantha inquired again. “Where did you grow up?”

“In Vermont,” replied Gregory

“No way,” said Samantha, “Corinth, Vermont, 05039.”

“I was born in Washington, then moved to Orange when I was ten” was Gregory’s response. “I couldn’t wait to get the hell outta there but now that I have, I find myself wishing I’d stayed like the rest. Where'd you go to school?”

“Oxbow,” replied Samantha. “You?” 

“U32.”

“Funny how hometowns work, isn't it?” answered Samantha, changing her tone. “You spend your whole life there, it's your entire world and all you can think of is how big the world outside is but once you get out, if you get out, you realize it's a lot smaller than you ever could have imagined, and back home doesn't seem so small.”

“Yea,” replied Greg. “It does seem to work that way, doesn't it?”

  “It does,” said Samantha. “I often wonder why I never moved back, but I just can't. I’d rather be in some other, unfamiliar, lonely place than a lonely place that I know; it's a funny sort of masochisticness.”

A long stretch of silence overtook the car until Samantha spoke again: “What are you doing driving up to Fort Kent on Christmas Eve, anyway?”

“Well,” Greg replied, “I guess the same as you, I’d rather be lonely and broke in the far north of Maine than a place I've spent half my life.”

Samantha thought for a while before speaking and eventually commented: “It’s like the Jimmy Buffet song, “Wonder Why We Ever Go Home” except I wonder why I don't ever go home.”

“Yea, it's as if we feel too foolish because we spent eighteen years convincing ourselves and everyone around us that the outside world is better, only to go back. I never thought about this but I guess I'm afraid of my roots,” pondered Gregory.

“It worked out for some,” replied Samantha. “You know the Richmonds?”

“Yeah, Danny and Kate?” 

“Exactly,” Samantha replied. “Their oldest, I think his name was Ollie, made it big in Silicon Valley or something. They say he’s gonna be the next Elon Musk.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Greg, somberly. “But my folks said the last time he came home was four and a half years ago.”

Before more could be said the sweeping lights of a vehicle swept through the car and cast shadows against the trees. The snow had slowed up and a Ram 3500 could be seen creeping up the road. The driver downshifted and the diesel engine purred softly as the truck came abreast the car. The driver got out and conversed with Greg, who got out and kicked some snow out of the way of the front bumper. The truck driver hitched a tow strap to the car and got in the truck. The engine revved and easily pulled the car clear of the snow and into its tracks. The driver wordlessly detached the strap and the hum of the engine died away into the night.

  The pair in the car carefully followed the tracks left by the truck, and an awkward silence settled on the two. After the car had reached the better-maintained Route 6, Samantha inquired: “Why don't you join us, I mean me and my cousins, for dinner? There's no way you'll reach Fort Kent by sunrise, and I guess it's better to be stuck here than there.”

“I suppose,” responded Gregory, “but I better be getting on my way. Besides, I don't mean to burden your family.”

Samantha did not press the issue, and in half an hour the car rolled to a stop and pulled into the driveway of a well-lit old farmhouse off the state route. Samantha said goodbye and went inside, leaving Greg alone in the car. The sounds of a revving engine and tires against ice could be heard from the table, and in a short time a snow-covered Greg filled the doorframe. “I think I might take you up on that offer of dinner from earlier.”