For each of my 73 years, for a few weeks in August, I slept in my family’s home, staying close to my parents, my sister, my grandmother, my cousins and my aunts and uncles.
Family roots on my father’s side in Waldoboro go back to the 1750s.
Before moving here full-time, we (my husband and I) lived in Blissville, a small neighborhood in Queens, New York City, that happens to share a lot with Waldoboro.
Its history dates back to the 1850s, built for workers clearing and moving earth for the first cemetery in Queens. And for generations, it’s been a scrappy, industrial community, populated with a motley of inventive and hard-working people, many of whom are self-employed. Some residents have lived there for generations. A few have never left Blissville. I wrote about this community for years.
We arrived in Waldoboro in 2020 with me in the last chapter of my life, yet I am the same artist, observer and documentarian that I have always been, whatever profession I took on. These have included photography, writing, organizing, drawing, performance, designing and blogs.
I’ve never been a ‘concerned’ writer or photographer. But I do have an agenda, which is to find human connection, regardless of the medium or genre.
I moved here for love – love of place, love of history, love of this town. It has given this back to me beyond my wildest dreams. The depth of rootedness I feel by living here never ceases to amaze me. The degree of mission I feel – to contribute in some way to Waldoboro – astounds me.
I say “Yes!” now. And this is all Waldoboro’s fault.
I’ve joined the Lions, the Women’s Club, the Waldoboro Business Association, the Historical Society and Broad Bay Congregational Church. I’m involved with Open House of History, The Waldo, and the Talent Show, too. Not to mention this Waldoboro Voices column that has run in The Lincoln County News weekly for the past couple of years.
I am an exuberant Waldoborian.