45th Parallel "This New England" Story

Text by Art Sordillo.
Photographs by Stephen O. Muskie.
Text copyright ©1988 Yankee Magazine. Used by Permission.

ON A MAP the 45th parallel is easy to find, well marked and straight. But as we rode along the parallel, we concluded that cartography, that curious blend of art and science, might just as well be the result of wishful thinking. No highway follows the 45th. After several days the pencil lines on our map melded to resemble a primitive electrocardiogram; treks to and from towns dotted along the parallel were never easy we went up to go down, east to go west, and sometimes forward to go back. If we stretched a tape measure straightaway from Perry, Maine (where we started), to Alburg, Vermont (where we finished), it might be 325 miles, less than a day's drive.

But our journey took 19 days. For us an imaginary line on a map became real. And we acquainted ourselves with people who truly are middle Americans.

Day 1: Perry, Maine

Situated on Passamaquoddy Bay in the south eastern section of Washington County, the 45th parallel of north latitude passes right through the town. The plan was simple: we'd find out where the 45th ambled into the bay, walk back in a straight line, and knock on the door of the first house we encountered; the folks inside would be the easternmost in America living on the 45th.

There was only one catch: nobody we spoke to in town could tell us where the 45th marker was. " 'Jeezem crow, think there's one marker over by the Loring place." Over we drove. Sure enough, out in back, where the property meets the ocean, was a marker. We did it!

"Hey Art, there's another marker over here." It looked just as official as the one we had just seen. We walked farther up the beach -- more markers.

"Uh, I don't think this is going to help us. Maybe these markers designate the boundary or something."

"Yeah."

Steve and I gave one last look at the bay, at the ramshackle fishing weirs here and there, and headed for town hall. Three hours, countless numbers of topographical maps, and lots of head cocking, all combined in our favor. Excitement. When we knocked on the door of Fran and Harry Raye and told them they were living in the easternmost house in America on the 45th parallel, they said, "Is that so? You boys like to come in for some coffee?"

Day 2: Still in Perry, Maine

Harry and his wife allowed Steve to photograph them at sunrise. Later we went upstairs in the Raye house to see the famous short-wave radio that has given Harry his nickname: "Raye-dio Free Perry," (According to one local, "If you want to know what's going on, listen to Harry,") Around 4:30 A.M. or so, Harry made breakfast, "To officially start you boys on your trip." I looked out the bay window to the deck; their cat was swallowing a mouse -- I watched the tail disappear.

"More sausage, Art?"

"No, thanks. We'd better get going."

We head west to Boyden Lake. During the drive to the eastern most lake in the United States, Steve and I talk about the past two days, hoping my vision of the Rayes' cat is not a sign of things to come.

Day 3: Charlotte, Maine

For 66 years Aunt Nell (everyone in town calls her that) has been baking apple pies for one thing or another. Tonight is no different; she's pitching in at the town hall for the annual fire department supper. "You've got to be a good cook to live in this town." I steal a pickle when no one's looking. Nell's 78, but she's just the baby of the family. "My sister Mabel is 79. She's so happy; she got her first driving license." Apparently Mabel wasn't allowed lowed to drive when her husband was alive, not even the tractor. "But since her husband has passed on, she gets around pretty well."

This is a small community. Over at Hatton's store, just about every family in town has a personalized clothespin that's attached to the morning papers when they arrive. Ken Sawyer lives in town and maintains, "We may not have a gas station or a post office and such, but we're pretty rich."

And over at the town hall, Aunt Nell has done it again. Her pie is delicious.

"Is there a secret to your pies?"

"Naw... For me, the secret of anything I do is I don't have secrets."

Day 5: Somewhere near where Myra is supposed to be

"Myra?" The old timer pulled back his cap and scratched the top of his head (where all the good memories are kept). "Never heard of it."

We pulled into a gas station in Old Town to check with one of the attendants: "Yep, there it is on the map. Funny. I never heard of it, though."

Great. We started following an imaginary line, and now we were looking for what seemed to be an imaginary town. We were stuck. Steve was doing most of the driving, so I let him try to figure it out.

"According to this map I have, we can get there if we cut through this lumbering road, Stud Mill Road."

Steve pointed; I promised to pay attention. We headed south on Pickerel Pond Road and missed a turn over by Bear Den Hill. We must have missed a turn; by now we were too far east. We were by Alligator Stream.

"Steve, let's turn around by Dud's Pond."

"Yeah, we shouldn't have gone by Hinkley Brook."

We had been driving in circles for three hours on a lumbering road. It was dusty, but it was so hot we had to keep the windows down.

"Hey, Steve, stop the car. There's another one of those signs over there."

He got out of the car and came back.

"What'd it say?"

"It says we should keep our windows up -- the whole area is being sprayed with insecticide."

"Oh."

Day 6: Myra, Maine

We found the town, but nobody lives there -- it's mostly just camps. Myra is no more; the town was made up at one time of three families. When the various members moved out and moved on, the town just ceased to be.

"We're probably the only ones that live like we do, and even then it's just for the summer," said Beatrice Duplessis.

Beatrice and her husband Eugene enjoy their summers in a cabin that Eugene built in 1959 on their 120-acre site. "Course I bought the land about 1946 for $700."

Eugene and Bea complement each other; when we were there, Beatrice had just finished picking some raspberries. "Eugene plants, and I pick." They've been doing that for nearly 30 years. Besides planting the garden, Eugene (when he feels like it) takes care of what's left of the town cemetery which is on his land. "I keep the grass down when I can, and if I don't, well... I don't get any complaints."

Day 8: Hudson, Maine

Just passed through, but looked in the town history. Page 97: "Francis Scott Curtis was born Saturday, February 1, 1975. He is Clifford Curtis's 32nd child." On the same page, Clifford Curtis, married to his sixth wife, admitted, "I was going to try for 36, but I can't make it."

Day 8: East Corinth, Maine

Olin Dow is 94. Maybe he owes his longevity to a life full of hard work. "Most of the houses you see here in East Corinth I had something to do with." Olin was a carpenter -- all you need to do is look at his workshop to confirm that; nothing is out of place. "But I've slowed down a bit the past few years. Now I just putter around here and there. I still build when I can." But now Olin builds small houses. He showed them to us: a church with pews, a school, even a hotel. He smiles. "All I need to keep me happy over the winter is 100 board feet of lumber."

Day 9: Dexter, Maine

The good weather is following us; so far the bright days have made the trip pleasant. We pull over and gas up in Dexter at Herbert Brooks's place. Hard to tell if he thinks cigars are for smoking or chewing, but he has a magnificent sign.

"Think I might take it down."

Dexter was the place to be if you wanted to see the eclipse on July 20,1963. A sign welcomed folks from all over to "Eclipse Town, U.S.A." Now the eclipse committee doesn't meet anymore; no more eclipses coming up right away. So we left. We were in too much of a hurry to wait for the moon to move. It was getting late when we started out of town, and we couldn't find a place to eat -- we went hungry.

Next time we'll bring our bow and arrow.

Day 10: Harmony, Maine

"Did you see what I...?" We stop and turn around. Someone has constructed a wall out of auto bumpers, street signs, and part of an old boat. We walk farther into the woods and notice a cabin; on the door lintel there's a note with a name, Wally Warren, and a phone number where we can reach him in Seattle, Washington. It's worth a call, so we go back to the car (being careful to walk around the washing-machine-agitator sculptures). I call at a pay phone by the side of the road.

"Hello, is Wally there?"

"No, this is Marlene."

I tell Marlene what we saw. She giggles. "We call that wall 'The Harmony Wall, East.' That's because out here we have another wall..." A trailer truck booms by, but I can figure out the rest of the conversation. "Well, nice talking to you, Marlene, and... peace and love. Bye."

Day 11: Rangeley, Maine

In the town report for 1865 the overseer of the poor for Rangeley indicated payments totaling $199.34 to the Bubier family. Legend has it that in the mid-19th century the Bubiers originally lived in Lewiston, but were given some money and told to move out of town -- to go live on the outskirts of Rangeley to fend for themselves. After that the Bubiers were always a contradiction of terms: they were poor, but hard workers.

The Bubiers built a little shantytown that the locals called "Boobytown." Now Boobytown is just a collection of cellar holes. But, we were told, there was one Bubier left, and he lived in a trailer not far away from old Boobytown.

"Virgil Bubier," I called out, careful to stand back; Virgil was using his chain saw. I screamed, "VIRGIL."

He cut the engine. He lit a cigar. "What can I do for you fellows?" His accent was something I could place, but could not name -- a mixture of French Canada and Maine. Virgil wouldn't tell us how old he was, but he recited a lifetime of lumbering and logging. "I could maybe work two-three days without stopping back when we were butt deep in wood. But I can't any more. I just stay here with Sam and Duke, my two friends." Sam and Duke are oxen that Virgil has used to clear his land. It's not easy work.

Lately the weather has been bothering Virgil; he doesn't like the cold. "Ey, I don't like the weather, but so what? I can't change it." Virgil finishes his cigar and, maybe, signals the end of our chat. "I've got some cutting to do."

Day 12: Emery's Misery, Maine

We spoke to many loggers, but none could give us complete details about this mountain and how it got its name. The best we could do was that "... around the turn of the century, a lumber man named Emery tried to log the mountain, couldn't do it, lost a lot of money, and ever since it has been called Emery's Misery." Steve and I found a pilot to fly us in to Aziscohos Lake to see what made Emery's life so complicated.

Day 13: Clarksville, New Hampshire

Not many towns on the 45th as it cuts through New Hampshire for 30 miles. We stop in to visit with Rudy Shatney, who runs a camp here at Clarksville Pond. Up until 1987 he was the fire warden.

"I never billed the town for my services as warden."

"How long did you serve?"

"Forty-one years."

That's the way things are done up here. No fanfare. And Rudy still keeps giving tips -- his knowledge of the area is legendary -- to hunters, hikers, and naturalists. Inside his cabin, Rudy makes some coffee. I spot a revolver on the mantel of his fireplace. "Pretty big gun."

"That's my .44. Shot nine bear with that."

But Rudy leaves the conversation at that. No war stories. "Got to get outside and pull in my wash before it starts to rain."

Day 15: Canaan, Vermont

Beatrice Mary Eugenia Schoff-Holmes was born in 1898, in the same house she lives in now. Work is something she likes to do; Beatrice won't quit until she has to. In 1919 she was made postmaster of Canaan, a position Beatrice held for 49 years. "They made me give it up -- mandatory retirement age. Beatrice told me something about the history of Canaan: "You know, some people did little and said a lot, and some people did a lot and said little."

At 89 Beatrice still finds things to do, like raising money for the new fountain being built on the town green. "Ah, the old one was all busticated; they never built it right to begin with."

From her parlor Beatrice listens to the work being done on the new fountain just outside her home. She sits, she rocks, she says little.

Day 16: Norton, Vermont

"Nelson Company" has two cash registers. Since the United States-Canada boundary runs right down the middle of this establishment, there's one register on each side, each with the proper legal tender. Ruth, Wilmot, and Miriam Nelson have been running this store all their lives; it's been in the family for two generations.

"We've lived here right along," says Ruth. Wilmot nods. Miriam adds, "A lot of tourists come by They call us the 'half and-half store. And they always want to know why the boundary comes down the middle of the store. I can't say; it's always been that way." Wilmot nods. We go out-side for a picture, and Miriam sees to it everything's in order: "Ruth, you better stand in Canada since I'm town clerk here in Norton." Wilmot nods.

Day 17: Richford, Vermont

There are many attractions here, two of them unique. Without a doubt, this town has the largest and most elaborate marker on the parallel. Call it 3,250 permanent pounds of Richford pride. The 205 members of American Legion Post 12 spent $6,000 in 1986 making sure everyone in town knows their place.

Over by Route 105, Elie LaRoche is pulling up stakes and moving to the other side of town. He's taking along his special cemetery.

"A few years ago my nephew died, and we had to take a long drive to New York for the service. So I got to thinking. Other people had to take rides they don't enjoy, and maybe I could change that."

So Elie started collecting old boots where he works at Blue Seal Feeds. His fellow employees had no idea why anyone would want worn-out boots.

"Hey, Elie," they said, "what are you going to do with all those boots?" LaRoche put them off. "You wait and see."

By taking old boots and the notion that travelers could be cheered by a simple sign, Elie set up "Boot Hill" as a sort of joke. Seventeen pairs of boots, stuck on wooden stakes with their heels heavenward, have given many motorists a moment to smile.

But now Elie LaRoche is moving, and he promises to set up Boot Hill at his new house. His blue eyes sparkle. "Yup, I'll be living up on a hill, and I figure when I set up the cemetery, those soles will be a little closer to heaven."

Day 18: Franklin, Vermont

This is the town from where the Fenian raids in Canada were launched (1866, 1870). The raids were an attempt by Irish patriots to take over Canada. Almon Richard is the local historian. He grew up with a bullet hole in the front door of his home. "They shot at my great-grandfather because he wouldn't let the raiders in the house -- made a hole clean through the door." (There's another bullet hole through the window sash, but Almon used that hole for his radio antenna.) Mr. Richard probably knows more, and has more, on the Fenian raids than anyone in North America. Almon used to oversee the battle reenactments. "Maybe the saddest part was when we would start off with the Vincent death."

During the first raid in 1866 Margaret Vincent crossed the battlefield at night to draw some water from a well. She was ordered to halt three times by a Canadian soldier. When she didn't stop, she was shot. Almon ends with, "What that soldier didn't know was what everyone in the valley knew: poor Margaret was deaf."

Day 19: Alburg, Vermont

There's a bridge dedication today over at Rouses Point, the bridge that crosses from Vermont to New York. But first we stop for breakfast at Kay's Restaurant.

It's a small restaurant where a cup of coffee is a quarter, but the owners of the place manage to go through six pounds of butter a day and a lot of home fries. It's run by Bev and Bubby Irick.

"Bubby gets up at 3:00 every morning to go to work," says Bev. "That's when he starts to think about the menu."

Most of the regulars are truck drivers, "My truck drivers," says Bubby.

And as for the bridge being dedicated, Bubby and Bev will miss the friends they've made the past couple of years -- "regulars" who have worked on the bridge construction. But in many ways Bev and Bubby are as responsible for the bridge being dedicated today as the engineers.

"I guess you could say the workers provided the know-how, and we provided the calories."

The bridge ceremony provides another insight to boundaries and imaginary lines. The Governor of Vermont, Madeline Kunin, had to attend the ceremony on the New York side of the bridge because New York Governor Mario Cuomo was out of the country (New York law wouldn't allow the Lt. Governor of New York, Stan Ludine, to leave New York State when acting as governor).

Day 20: Back at the office, New Hampshire

There's a package waiting for me from the U.S. Geological Survey Library. The parcel has copies of documents written on the 45th parallel and how it was surveyed. It seems the parallel was surveyed easterly from Lake Champlain by two men named Smith and Collins. They submitted a bill for their services in 1766 -- one group of items on their bill caught my eye:

Quarter cask of Madeira: 16 pounds
Rum and Wine: 10 pounds 7 shillings
French Brandy: 2 pounds 8 shillings
Wine: l pound l shilling

This bill was submitted after the two gentlemen had "run the partition line" a total of 22 miles. Steve and I traveled a total of 2,384 miles, and we didn't touch a drop. Honest.