i've been living in portland maine over a year now and i realize that i've basically been living as a glorified tourist. i've seen some sights, tried some restaurants and have gone to a few events but i haven't done anything more than a summer tourist could do. that was until the other weekend when i partied with some g.o.b's.
that's right, some "good ol boys."
i was invited to a bonfire out in the woods by a friend of mine. upon arriving and looking at the number of pickup trucks in the driveway i knew i was in for a treat. we barbecued, told stories, drank beer and kept the fire roaring. by roaring i of course mean that a few of the g.o.b's saw the fire getting low, went to their trucks and fired up chainsaws. i of course, having left my chainsaw at home, was on the porch enjoying an amazing plate of baked beans. heading back to get another scoop, i heard a large thud outside. looking out the window i saw an entire tree down. minutes later the trucks pulled up and delivered three full beds of the fallen tree to the bonfire. a half an hour later the fire was much bigger and i was stuffed with baked beans.
as the night went on we found ourselves moving down from the deck and towards the flames. the closer we got the better the stories. we heard all about portland in the 60's and 70's and how great munjoy hill use to be, back when it was "filled with hookers and crack." their words, not mine. we heard stories from bars long ago forgotten and other adventures around the area.
i felt at home and homesick at the same time. this was the kind of thing we use to do all the time growing up. although the burnt smores of my childhood were replaced with cans of coors this night, hanging out in the country, around a bonfire, felt like old times.
there's just some shit you can't do in the city...
although from the stories i heard that night, in the 70's you might have been able to.