When I moved to Portland, Maine, from Boston in 2003 with my boyfriend, Craig, it was a pit stop, not a home. I had no desire to lay down roots.
From as far back as I could remember, my dream was to head out to Hollywood and make a name for myself in the film industry. I even attended graduate school and received an MA in television/video production from Emerson College. At some point during our first date, Craig told me he wanted to become a comedy writer. Our plan was hatched. We were heading to Southern California. Of course, we would need time to save.
We decided to spend a year or so in Portland, saving and preparing for the move out West. It’s been over 20 years.
Our families were in New England
Craig was born and raised in Maine, and his parents still lived there. I was from a city north of Boston. While Craig’s family originally came from Denmark and Ireland, and mine made their way over from Sicily, our ancestors decided to settle in New England. Our families were proud and devoted New Englanders for at least three generations. That tradition would end with us. As a kid, even before my California dreaming, I vowed I would never raise my children in New England. I hated the cold and didn’t enjoy growing up in a city.
We moved to Portland in August 2003 from my small apartment in Massachusetts. I got rid of almost everything we owned, and we moved in with Craig’s parents. Discovering he’d never let his parents know of our plan made my desire to leave even stronger.
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We managed to find jobs, and we began to save. I promised myself I wouldn’t become attached to anything or anyone. Craig’s mother made that impossible. She became a friend and surrogate mother. Still, I planned. I spent evenings searching for apartments online and days stashing away the money I earned working at a daycare.
I got pregnant with our first kid
Then, eight months after we moved to Maine, I had a strange feeling. I’d missed my period and was exhausted at the end of each day. A week later, the two pink lines told me what I already believed was true. I was pregnant.
We tried to imagine moving to Los Angeles with a new baby and no support system. Who would we call in times of crisis or when we needed a babysitter? We knew then that we couldn’t. We didn’t.
Instead, we decided to stay in Maine. We bought a starter home and had three more kids. Then, we moved into the dream house in the suburb of Scarborough, a coastal community with good schools and several beaches. My dreams of West Coast living didn’t die. Los Angeles became a place I still looked to when life became difficult. The leaky roof and the constant cold-weather journeys with kids sent me scrolling for homes in the sunshine.
I hated the cold but felt like I couldn’t move
While there were things I liked about Maine, I still hated the cold and the exorbitant cost of life in New England in the winter (heating, rising electricity costs, shoveling, storm damage). When the pandemic rolled around and our lives were thrown off, we decided to move. The transition to Los Angeles seemed extreme. Our journey would be to a place a bit closer.
We decided to move South. Finally, we would leave behind the chaotic mess that was home ownership and parenthood in the winter. My dream of leaving New England was finally within reach. We looked in Georgia and South Carolina, and we even put our dream house up for sale.
In the meantime, life in Maine carried on. I found a teaching job after returning to school for my MS in Education. I’d made friends. My kids had made friends. It was only when I was faced with leaving that I realized I didn’t want to. I had finally found a home. It was one I never thought I wanted in a place where I thought I would never raise a family. Still, it was the place I had lived longest, and it was home. It had been for far longer than I’d realized.
Maine is my place. It is where all of my children were born and educated. It is where I found a fantastic job as a special educator in the district where I live. I’ve decided a few months of cold is worth it to remain where I’m supposed to be. Besides, my middle-school son plays hockey, which has kept us entertained in the winter, and I’ve found shoveling to be an effective and invigorating workout.
My journey to finally finding home was a long one and one I never expected. But like John Lennon said, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” I guess finding home is too.