Rockland through the seasons
We first came to Rockland in summertime. It was a heady season in our lives, though we felt so sturdy on our feet, a full year into our life together, a quarter-century into life itself. We were on the hunt for lighthouses and had seen pictures of Rockland Breakwater engulfed by the tide. But the harbor was calm that day, and the wide slabs felt steady underfoot as we drew nearer and nearer to the regal white-clad structure at the end.
We tried to catch a glimpse of Owl’s Head across the water, but the lantern was obscured by the trees. So we hurried back to the car to race the sunset to our destination. Our haste was rewarded when we reached the lookout at the very peak of golden hour. As I took in the breathtaking expanse of Penobscot Bay, shimmering and splendid, my very heart felt bathed in light.
We visited again on Valentine’s Day, trying to skirt the edge of a blizzard but secretly hoping to be snowed in. I knew you were planning a proposal, but did not know the how or where of it. It was snowing when we reached the lighthouse at Marshall Point. We looked at each other and laughed in delight. The sun broke through the clouds the very moment you got down on one knee, transforming the vignette into a snowglobe, each perfect snowflake glinting in the flurry. The world itself prefigured my answer to your question, so joyously enrobed in bridal white.
Rockland became a pattern to us after that, one that we were eager to stitch new memories into. In October, we sought refuge from the early evening darkness in restaurants and wine bars. We found none so cozy and enlivening as the glowing hearth of Cafe Miranda. We reveled at being in a place where both lobsters and sweet potatoes were locally sourced, where patis and Gorgonzola commingled on a plate.
When we walked the breakwater again in early May, we could actually see Owl’s Head across the bay, its stout head peeking over the pines and the early wisps of green. The next morning, we huddled under blankets on the balcony at 250 Main and watched the sun rise in a startling diffusion of fuchsia and gold.
Now again in the deep of winter, I peer down Main Street through a frosted windowpane, feathered and pristine. When we order the wood-fired nachos between exhibits at the Farnsworth, I wonder if the funny, brown-eyed waitress remembered our faces the way we do hers. It occurs to me that I’ve lost count of all the times we have dined at Cafe Miranda. I wonder what that makes us, in the story still unfolding of this sleepy seaside town. Not quite regulars, but not strangers at all -- a cozy, hopeful thing to be.
