Long before man made it official, I was born, a sylvan stretch of land bordering the Kennebec River. Populated by American natives that fished my lakes and streams and built their encampments along the banks of the Kennebec. Winters were often harsh, but beautiful, and I was proud of my snow covered coat. But it was my other seasons that showed man my true worth. My fertile soil provided plentiful harvests and my vast wilderness provided game and respite from the summer heat. The red man flourished, respecting my land and giving praise to my bounty. He understood the relationship between me and the heavens like no man since has…
Then the white man came, quenching their innate urge to explore, they trekked along the Atlantic coastline-- descendants of Plymouth colony, they carved a crude path along the Kennebec toward Canada, building rudimentary town after town. Settling on my southern tip in 1649, they took advantage of the natives naiveté, buying me for next to nothing, but that was nothing new by then. Even with this transfer I prospered; Native and white man co-existed and utilized my beauty...I was content.
The white man built Fort Richmond in 1719 and with it, things began to change. Meant as much to antagonize the natives, as to defend against them, the fort was a focal point during the French and Indian Wars. Twice the natives attacked the fort, being repelled each time, and slowly the natives knew...I was no longer theirs.
After the war, life grew quiet and man again enjoyed my splendor. Depression hit hard in the early 1800's, but instead of shrinking, my beauty grew...economics had not yet made it's mark on me.
That soon changed when man mastered the waters. Their steamboats churned up the Kennebec, bringing industry and different cultures to my banks. Farms grew, dotting my landscape, providing sustenance for the region. Greek revival homes became proud markers of my prosperity and for the moment I grew more attractive still.
However, The Civil War saw many of my brave children go off to fight, only to never return. With their leaving, so did their hopes and dreams by which my course was plotted. Farming ceased to play the dominant role, for those who now grew up on the farms had different dreams. Unsatisfied with what they had, many read the daily newspapers and dreamed of leaving me for what they believed were better opportunities in the larger towns and cities across the country. Factories began to skewer my land, reacting to America's great Industrial shift. With this change, new residents arrived, Russian immigrants sought my boundaries as a refuge from religious and political persecution. Their Orthodox church became a beautiful beacon of freedom and I was proud that they chose my soil to begin anew.
Time passed and very little changed. Ships and trains were replaced by planes and automobiles, but the change was merely cosmetic--the town itself grew and shrank, according to the economy. I faced hazards: man polluted my soil with chemicals and the run-off contaminated my rivers. Young men and women , reacting to social and political restraints grew idealistic and chanted slogans calling for my return to purity. But these youths, whose ambitions soon died, forsook their cause and within a few years, joined the rest of mankind in polluting my land. Still, despite all of this I remained the same, unaware of the next struggle.
And indeed there was something new to fear. Trickle-down economics spread along its path like a wildfire. Disguised as chainsaws and bulldozers, these opportunists, bolstered by a bull market, divided my lands and sold me to those from away. They swarmed in from Boston and Hartford, searching for a quieter life...believing that what I possessed could be theirs. Most did not understand that to truly possess something you must respect it...and these young professionals cared little for my history, for my beauty. What they were searching for were answers to their own disillusionment and to a balm for their self-imposed regrets. But psychological remedies and social affirmations could not be found in my remoteness, or in my wooded landscape...not without understanding the difference between what they wanted…and really needed.
Instead they built their homes and scoffed at those who'd lived and played on my land for generations. My people became cold and distant...and I felt each pang like a dagger to the heart...for true beauty lays not in my lakes and woods, but in how I speak to man.
Though I feel this great divide, I know it cannot last. I am patient, waiting for the change that life's ebb and flow demands...and with it, I will be beautiful and at peace again, displaying what God created, and what under his care I willingly share with all of mankind.
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I can understand why you would be happy with how this one came out.
Interesting perspective from the voice of the land and I believe the Native Americans had the right idea. This carries the tone of deep respect and regard for the land and original way of life before those "from away" started to change it into what they were going there to escape.
Makes no sense but I've seen it done in my area too by the influx of people from predominantly two of the five boroughs. Having lived here all but two years of my life I've witnessed the changes in the people and the land which I don't see as improvements.
Being a history geek, this write really appeals to me. I think its important to know the background of the areas in which we live. My little corner was part of a farm until the 1950s. The original farm house still stands and has been restored but I don't approve of the landscaping. lol It seems out of place to me with the character of the house.
Anyway, I liked this lots Yemmie.
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I haven't read this story in a while so it probably isn't very good. Often I think stories are interesting and then when I look at them a year or more later I wonder what was wrong with me. I do get the sense that this one was boring.
but I don't approve of the landscaping
Of course you don't.
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You have it in your dozens which are supposed to be the ones you like. lol
The landscaping is too contemporary and so out of place. I cringe every time I go past and wonder what were they thinking? One day I might just meander by with my shovel. lol -
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My Yemassee dozen? Yes, the ones I hate the least.
You're a landscape snob! -
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Not really a snob. They have all this ornamental topiary crap that they probably paid a fortune for all lumped together in an island of sorts in the front of the house. It's hideous. Trust me.
I still liked your story.
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Maybe you live next to Edward Scissorhands?
Ok, if they have topiaries I'm already against them. Lets burn them out. Teach them a thing about Jersey justice!
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Too many topiaries! Just one might be okay...off to the side.
Let's sit out front of their house on lawn chairs blasting Sinatra and Deano from my boom box.
They'll get the message. lol
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through, wow, I must have been drunk, lol
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Since you seem opposed to my modest suggestion, can I at least throw their cat down a well?
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They have a well, but no cat.
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A fake well, I know those city types! I'll burn that to the ground then! All I know is, I'm not going home until something burns or gets tossed down a well.
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This is fiction but is Richville a real town or is it symbolic of many places on our world...The changes over time have happened this very way and at times it is so slow we hardly notice until we step back and think of the 'way it was'...This makes me sad because it is so true...
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I live in Richmond, Maine and Richville is a fairly accurate history of the town. And of course as you say, it illustrates many small towns ovwr time. Thanks again for all your reading, poor you!
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