Monhegan Island, Maine
One could write for a long time about Monhegan Island. I will start with the junk. There is a small lot next to the fish market that certainly has not been attended to this summer, judging by the weeds growing through the lobster traps. There are rows of traps, a piece of a dock, propane tanks, plastic barrels and 55 gallon drums rusting in the salty air.
There are trucks on the island. At least one of the trucks is itself junk and in its bed is more junk—a wooden chair and a plastic red gas can.
In between the junk are well-proportioned houses, most of them sheathed in weathered gray shingles, which tie the island together thematically. The houses also shelter people and their non-junk possessions.
Manana Island, a bulge of rock across the harbor from Monhegan, is unique among land masses in my experience, in that it contains only junk: the abandoned house of a hermit, old wooden-hooped lobster traps, and an entire Coast Guard station. Now all junk.
Between two buildings near the fish beach somebody—or somebodies—has jammed into a foot-wide alley a variety of dimensional lumber and PVC pipe. Not exactly junk, but illustrative of the lack of space on the island, which may account for all the other junk being left out of doors.
On the southern tip of the island at Lobster Cove is a monumental piece of junk: the shipwreck of the tugboat D.T. Sheridan. A good part of the ship remains rusting on the shore, perhaps the largest single piece of junk I have ever seen. Strange. What if we had a car accident here in Hollywood and no one towed away the wreck?
The fish beach has not just junk—the occasional water-filled dinghy—but trash: lobster and crab shells (which I saw a waitress dumping on the other side of the jetty—perhaps for the gulls—at 7:30 this morning), as well as a number of orange halves. Trash is a big issue here, as it is on any island—deserving a serious essay, I’m sure—but junk is another matter. It is battering the image of the thrifty Yankee, of which I am one.
Some of the junk has of course been salvaged and given to the Monhegan Museum. I applaud this historical spirit. Some future junk is being sold at island gift shops, but this is I think generally taken off-island by its purchasers. Some junk is re-used. Rusty Spear—the guy who took me out to Manana yesterday—makes doormats out of old rope. The mats are attractive and look very functional.
It is expensive to take things off and on Monhegan, so it’s not a surprise that they tend to pile up on such a small island and in public. Even the trash is lined up with the recycling and the propane tanks on the dock on such-and-such a day to be taken to the mainland. But not the junk. That stays.
There are trucks on the island. At least one of the trucks is itself junk and in its bed is more junk—a wooden chair and a plastic red gas can.
In between the junk are well-proportioned houses, most of them sheathed in weathered gray shingles, which tie the island together thematically. The houses also shelter people and their non-junk possessions.
Manana Island, a bulge of rock across the harbor from Monhegan, is unique among land masses in my experience, in that it contains only junk: the abandoned house of a hermit, old wooden-hooped lobster traps, and an entire Coast Guard station. Now all junk.
Between two buildings near the fish beach somebody—or somebodies—has jammed into a foot-wide alley a variety of dimensional lumber and PVC pipe. Not exactly junk, but illustrative of the lack of space on the island, which may account for all the other junk being left out of doors.
On the southern tip of the island at Lobster Cove is a monumental piece of junk: the shipwreck of the tugboat D.T. Sheridan. A good part of the ship remains rusting on the shore, perhaps the largest single piece of junk I have ever seen. Strange. What if we had a car accident here in Hollywood and no one towed away the wreck?
The fish beach has not just junk—the occasional water-filled dinghy—but trash: lobster and crab shells (which I saw a waitress dumping on the other side of the jetty—perhaps for the gulls—at 7:30 this morning), as well as a number of orange halves. Trash is a big issue here, as it is on any island—deserving a serious essay, I’m sure—but junk is another matter. It is battering the image of the thrifty Yankee, of which I am one.
Some of the junk has of course been salvaged and given to the Monhegan Museum. I applaud this historical spirit. Some future junk is being sold at island gift shops, but this is I think generally taken off-island by its purchasers. Some junk is re-used. Rusty Spear—the guy who took me out to Manana yesterday—makes doormats out of old rope. The mats are attractive and look very functional.
It is expensive to take things off and on Monhegan, so it’s not a surprise that they tend to pile up on such a small island and in public. Even the trash is lined up with the recycling and the propane tanks on the dock on such-and-such a day to be taken to the mainland. But not the junk. That stays.
posted by Hallovian at 7:42 PM
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