I was born and raised in Portland—as the name suggests, a harbor, with oil tankers,
freighters, Coast Guard ships, etc., continually disturbing the seals and lobsters who, in
deference to hallowed New England tradition, were just trying to mind their own business.
My house (red star) was just two blocks from Casco Bay with its 365 islands, although I never counted them. The house where Longfellow was born was within walking distance even for a pre-schooler, who was much impressed. Unbeknownst to me, Longfellow had company. At about this time, somewhere else in the city, little Stephen King, three years my junior, would one day think up plots that would also leave a lasting impression.
The harbor is still quite busy, with freighters, cruise ships, lobster boats, etc. Too busy, and much too cold, to
go swimming, though. Likewise, too polluted to go hunting for clams along the rocky beach. Elsewhere,
however, the scenery is more picturesque. Tourists will remark that many sites, such as
Portland Headlight (below), remind them of a calendar that they once hung on their refrigerator.
I did not live near this famous lighthouse but, at least, I did live near the ocean. Just
a block away, as the seagull flies, was Fort Allen Park (left). The structure out in the middle
of the bay is
Ft. Gorges (cf. map above). During World War II, Portland, the harbor closest to Europe,
was a prime target for German submarines and there was a sizable Army contingent assigned to watch
out for them.
Like most city folk, nearly everything I needed was nearby. I started kindergarten at the age of four and that was just four blocks away. Later, primary and middle schools were only a mile to the West. There were no school busses. Either you walked or took public transportation. (Very few of my friends' families had cars.) Even the Public Library, my favorite destination, was just a half-hour hike.
Eventually, I managed to wander farther afield (five miles) once I started high school.
Speaking of lasting impressions…
My most memorable day in four years at Cheverus High School came one morning when the entire student body (400+, all boys in those days) assembled in the auditorium for a special occasion, mysterious to us new freshman but much too familiar to upperclassmen. After we were seated, the principal arose onstage and stood at a rostrum holding what appeared to be someone's term paper.
Faint hope! Instead, he read, in a loud voice, the name of every student in the school. The victim, in each case, would stand up (hoping his tie was on straight) and the principal would then proceed to recite the student's seven grades for the most recent marking period.
This was worse than it sounds. A student was permitted to get one failing grade but two or more meant permanent expulsion, even for seniors. Consequently, this was the last we ever saw of some classmates. At one such assembly, an entire sophomore section was vanquished in this fashion and, two years later, their class graduated 25 percent short.
Can you say "motivation"? Believe me, it works.
To many students today, the extreme focus on excellence: the Reading of Grades, the required core curriculum (4 years English, 4 years Latin, 3 years German or French, 4 years math, 2 years science, 2 years history, etc.), the biweekly book test on a library book read in the interim, the fact that the official title of the assistant principal was "Dean of Discipline" and the afterschool punishments (typically, mowing the lawn with nail scissors), the cumpulsory coat and tie, plus the ban on student automobiles (and smoking) … would all seem a BAD THING. In retrospect, however, they were quite the opposite and the fact that our high school had the highest academic reputation of any in the state was no coincidence.
In other respects, there were many bright spots: the Saturday dances, annual theatricals (always musicals), sports, etc. After considerable effort, and many victories, I finally won my varsity letter in debating. Our team was really good!
Still, nothing lasts forever and, at the age of seventeen, I left Portland for college. It was a long trip—three-and-a-half days on a Greyhound bus, arriving at last in Seattle.