Thank you for planning to attend one of the three shows I plan to do in the summer of 2008 at the Monhegan school.
Good news. You can stay at The humble Farmer Bed
& Breakfast and easily take the Laura B out to Monhegan at 7.
Augment your Monhegan experience with a stay at The humble Farmer Bed and Breakfast.
Call us at 207-226-7442 or click here ---
humble's B & B
The Deep Monhegan Blues
"Now when you go down to Monhegan
Put your money in your shoes,
'Cause them women on Monhegan
Got them deep Monhegan Blues."
Ballad by Bertie Simmons & Levi Hupper (Chorus and second and third verses available upon request.)
If you've been everywhere in the world, if you've seen every strange sight there is to see and if you think you've done everything there is to do, I suggest you go down to Monhegan.
I'm talking about a small island ten miles or so off the coast of Maine. Every day in the summer 50 to 100 Boston or New York people wind their way north on old Route One, gift shop capital of the world, and about 70 miles up from Portland they hang a right at Thomaston. From there it's a straight 14-mile run down through St. George to the fishing village of Port Clyde. In Port Clyde, which is just as far as any sober citizen has ever driven an automobile, they drag their duffel bags down to the dock and board Jim Barstow's Laura B, which is another name for the Monhegan Boat.
Then two or three dozen of them, who have obviously never set foot on Maine salt water before, find a comfortable spot on deck, peel off their shirts, turn their faces up to the sun, and wait. Two or three natives wink at each other and watch with interest.
The Laura B gets underway. As she plows past Hupper's Island, thin, white hands rub nervously at goose bumps which have mysteriously appeared on arms and legs, for this is July and last night it was 110 degrees almost everywhere else in the northern hemisphere.
Ten minutes later, between Allen's Island and Burnt Island, women are digging out sweaters and orange slickers. Some move back aft into the cabin to get out of the bone-chilling fog and spray. Ten minutes later and 20 easy minutes from Monhegan, even the jocks have dug out sweaters or have gone inside with chattering teeth.
You've been on safari in Africa, you've had reindeer pie with the Lapps, but here on the Monhegan dock is truly a unique experience. A crowd has assembled to welcome friends and you identify scraps of exotic speech patterns --- Memphis, Brooklyn and West Palm Beach --- as you work your way through the smiling throng, hoping to find an empty taxi.
But down on Monhegan there are no taxies for there are no roads. Two or three well-rusted pickup trucks haul freight over narrow, winding paths of rocks where mountain goats would stagger and where Sherpas would fall.
Monhegan's 150 houses sport a weather-beaten look with white trim on the windows. One looks in vain for a condominium, for thirty years ago a handful of people formed an association, which still protects the wild land on the island. Since then zoning has come in which has frozen almost everything else. Power lines from the island's generator are buried in rock. Twenty-five of the homes utilize solar power.
Looks like a strange settlement, you say? Perhaps so, but walk back into the woods on one of the rocky trails for one of the creepiest, most unsettling experiences to be found in the world today: One can walk for miles through rotting, moss-covered spruces without seeing a McDonald's wrapper or shake container.
You walk quietly, preserving a religious silence, as you pass through the sylvan glens and along the rocky cliffs, for two or three hundred tight-lipped Monhegan artists are standing elbow to elbow, daubing away at any given daylight hour.
"No wonder," you exclaim. "Who could help being moved to such an outpouring of expression by the natural beauty which everywhere abounds?"
But the truly analytical mind will point out that this is not necessarily so --- on Monhegan there is really nothing else to do.
You dig in your wallet and bring out a small scrap of paper. A friend has insisted that you call upon his old buddy, Harry Tbone. Although Harry is expecting you, the doors are locked and the shades are drawn. You knock. A front shade moves just a crack --- the door is opened, a hoarse voice hisses, "In, quickly," and the door is slammed behind you.
Harry is glad to see you. He is a warm, friendly man who is obviously well thought of in his little community, for his walls are completely covered with autographed works of art.
"Every time I do a favor for someone," he explains, "they bring me a painting. Now I like paintings, but my house is getting jammed with them --- there simply isn't room for one more. No, I can't sell them or give them away because there might be hard feelings when they're missed. That's why my doors are all closed and the shades are drawn this afternoon. You see, yesterday I loaned Jamie Wyeth my wheelbarrow and Jim just called to tell me that Jamie is heading this way with a painting under his arm."
© 1987 Robert Karl Skoglund
Here's a picture of Frances, one of my Monhegan friends, on one of her better days. Frances is an excellent jazz pianist and for years listened to my Public Radio show.
Frances Kornbluth
Here's how you can get to Monhegan on the Laura B and where you can stay when you get there.
The Laura B & Hotels
Bradley Hendershot a clever artist from the Chadd's Ford area. He works on Monhegan for a month or so every summer.
Bradley Hendershot
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© 2008 Robert Karl Skoglund