I’m reluctant to call Eliza a Mainer. As someone born here, I’m expected to uphold the unspoken duty not to bestow that title upon anyone from away. But I’ve always thought that was a little small-minded. I didn’t choose to be born here any more than I chose any other circumstance of my birth.
I consider it good fortune to have been cast here, of all places, but I came about it rather lazily. Eliza made a conscious choice to move here from somewhere else. That’s no small thing. It’s difficult to go away for the weekend, let alone for life.
Speaking of going away for the weekend: In a sort of reverse Labor Day migration, we took a bus down to Boston. We arrived at South Station, walked through the early-morning shade of tall buildings, stopped in a crosswalk to look up at a funny shadow on one of them, got a coffee, hopped on the T, and headed straight for the tree-filled serenity of Arnold Arboretum.
Not a tall building in sight. Not many people, either.
I may remain reluctant to call Eliza a Mainer, but take the two of us out of Maine, and it becomes difficult to tell which one of us was born there.