This collection of oral histories will never be complete. For one thing, there are over 5,000 people in Waldoboro. Then there’s the fact that each interview is caught in a particular moment, on a particular day, in a particular year. What may be true then, might not be now. People’s stories are never complete.
Nonetheless, they represent the truth of a particular moment. And taken collectively, they draw a rough portrait of Waldoboro.
If someone leaves town, if someone passes away, they are still part of Waldoboro’s fabric. And if they ruminated about their land or their family, or work, or heritage or simply someone who was kind to them, their feelings still linger in our ether because they were touched, and they touched others in turn.
In school we study history as a collection of dates, facts, acts, and leaders. But when families go back to the 1700s, as in Waldoboro, history is personal. Suddenly, it’s a muddle of love, loyalty, pride, anger and grief. It can be a collection of grievances or resolutions. Or both.
And contradictions abound! Talk to a clam digger and he’ll tell you one thing. Talk to a police officer, and she’ll have a different take. I have no reason to doubt either of their truths. If the universe can hold opposites, why can’t we?
Lately, I have been thinking about identity. It’s common around here to talk about who’s from here and who’s from away. But that’s a squishy line, especially since we’re all ultimately from away. And where are the borders of “here” anyway?
For 68 years, I summered in Waldoboro and then I moved to Waldoboro. But even as a summer person, I felt Waldoboro was a part of me and my own identity. A new friend, one with absolutely no prior connection to Waldoboro claims Waldoboro, too. And I believe her. To me, everyone I’ve ever written about here is from Waldoboro, even if they’ve now moved away. To me, anyone who has passed through here, put even the slightest roots here, is part of this entity we call Waldoboro. And these interviews are meant to reflect that.
I began Waldoboro Voices as a way of introducing us all to each other and to connect us to one another more deeply. Picture it as a place where we gather, and where we talk about what is on our minds and what matters to us. But imagine it also as a place where we are neighbors and the kind who talk over the fence with each other.
These testimonies are a record of our era’s challenges such as housing, health, addiction, political differences, and the changing forces around work.
But there are larger, more complex stories underneath. An interview about the loss of a friend might slide into one of sudden forgiveness. An account of addiction might really be a history of desolation in the face of indifference or judgement. A chronicle of couch-surfing might shift into one of generosity.
There’s another part of history, too – that of exquisite moments, such as the way just-harvested beans feel in your hands as you’re washing them in the colander; or the sucking of the mud against your boots as you move across the flats for clams; or the ruckus of an old farmer starting up his tractor to harvest his hay just when your family has settled down to a picnic — and the moment that follows, too, when you all decide to join the farmer in getting his hay in before nightfall.
Stick with these Waldoborians. And as you read, I hope you’ll see what I see — buoyancy, self-reliance, faith, perseverance, and even humor that pervades the people of Waldoboro.